The Pompatus Box
by frostygossamer
Summary: A handsome adventurer, a royal runaway, an unscrupulous businesswoman and a pirate king come together in pursuit of a mysterious box. But what is the Pompatus Box and how will its mysterious contents save the day and change our hero's life forever? Sci-fi AU, unrelated Sam/Dean. Short chapters frequently updated. COMPLETE
1. The Adventure Begins

Summary: A handsome adventurer, a royal runaway, an unscrupulous businesswoman and a pirate king come together in pursuit of a mysterious box. But what is the Pompatus Box and how will its mysterious contents save the day and change our hero's life forever? Sci-fi AU, unrelated Sam/Dean. Warnings: medicinal use of illegal substances.

A/N: Finally had time to finish this story that I've been fiddling with on and off for ages. It's a space opera with touches of steampunk set inside the Earth-Moon system. Dean and Sam are unrelated but, as always, made for each other. As usual, expect a happy ending.

Warnings: I've called it M, but the naughty bits are not that shocking. It shouldn't bother a modern teen really. Also there's mention of medicinal drug use and drug addiction.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its fandom, its characters or anything connected to them. I do not make money or profit in any way from this story.

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The Pompatus Box (Chapter 1: The Adventure Begins) by frostygossamer

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Captain Dean, the former Dean Winchester, punches in his new course for Luna, leans back in his snugly upholstered captain's chair and exhales. It will be another three hours before his rocketship makes moonfall, and he has more than enough time to prepare for his latest mission.

Jo has found him a tasty under-the-counter hostage acquisition. Jo Harvelle is the dispatcher at Convoy Control on Terra, his official employer. The most lucrative jobs are always either hostage or artefact retrieval, quick but dangerous stealth missions that call for special skills and enhanced stamina like Dean's.

This one has come at the perfect time, when he's on downtime from his official escort duties protecting intrasystem transports from in-flight harassment. The convoy system has effectively eliminated the predation the space lanes between Terra and her three satellites, Luna and the artificial Eno and Emo, used to suffer in the early days. Escort work has become relatively easy money.

Dean studies his mission details on the visualizer. He believes he has vaguely heard of this missing guy before. He's some bratty royal from a small Terran grand-duchy called Campobello, a leftover from the old Union of North American States.

Jo wired him a mugshot of the runaway. Dean holds it up to the light and examines it critically. The guy looks happy, like some big goofy kid smartly tricked out in the fashionable designer casuals he endorses.

The snap seems to be a still from the guy's recent engagement bash. Dean recognizes the pretty blonde fiancee's face from Satellite News coverage of her accidental death. Some sort of weird-ass fire, right? Waste of a foxy chick, Dean thinks. Shame.

Rising wearily, he slowly flicks open the dozens of tiny brass buttons that close the front of his form-hugging, blue-black uniform jacket and shrugs it off of his shoulders. He pauses by his closet to retrieve a hanger before slipping out of his dark pants and carefully stowing his escort flier costume.

Attention to detail is important to the running of Dean's ship, a classic Impala-class dirigible call sign 8A-8Y. Especially since her crew consists of only Dean. If he doesn't put his crapola away no one else will. He knows when he gets back aboard after a mission he may be too goddamn shattered to do much more than sleep, never mind pick up after himself.

Speaking of sleep, Dean is going to grab himself an hour of shuteye while he can. He can trust his ship, his Baby, on automatic pilot. Dean's ship is a tight-run ship.

=O=

Baby sets down on autopilot outside the Lunar city of Serenity, primary centre of Mare Serenitatis province. Dean is here to meet up with an old friend and contact, the guy known only as Ash.

Serenity is both the second oldest colony on the terraformed Luna and the second biggest city on Terra's natural moon. The great and good of Luna reside in the viceregal capital, Dianapolis. Dean, however, is on a quest for information and he knows the best source for Lunar scuttlebutt is a certain tavern where a certain mullet-headed scholar holds court in a back room.

Dean and Ash go back a long way. Back to when the guy went by Miles and had to change his name and flee to Luna in the hold of a terraformer ship. He barely escaped Terran jurisdiction before Civil Security arrested his ass.

Ash's network now encompasses both old and new worlds. He even has friends in the lawless terraformer settlements established by the roughneck navigators who found themselves unwelcome on Terra-bound transports home when the job was done.

Ash is easily Dean's most useful contact on the three satellites and his first port of call for anything that requires an attentive ear to the ground. Dean is looking for a royal runaway who doesn't want to be found. Ash will take that as a challenge.

If Ash doesn't know where this damn princeling is no one will.

=O=

Dean emerges fresh from a steam-shower onto the ship's main deck with only a towel loosely wrapped around his slim hips, skin flushed pink and shiny. Removing the towel, he stands admiring himself in the mirror for a moment. Skin pale and flawless, handsome and with an almost feminine grace, no one would guess the hell Dean had put that perfect body through in his second life as a freelance adventurer.

Sighing he begins to dress, easing himself into a tight pair of drawers for maximum trim. He pulls the ornate lever that activates the hermetically sealed door of his equipment locker with an hydraulic shush and steps up to peruse the contents.

Serried rows of hazard suits hang on sterilized rails all along one side, on the other wall gleaming weapons of every shape and size. Light glints on twists of tubular brass, valves, cylinders and glowing cerulean crystal power units, all fully charged. The very latest technology questionably obtained credits can buy.

Dean selects himself a pair of leather pants and walking shoes. In Serenity, there will be more walking to do than asses to kick. That comes later. For on top, he chooses a plain white grandad shirt and brown tweed three-quarter jacket with leather reveres and elbow patches, long enough to hide the holster strapped to his thigh.

His favourite 3-barrel volley pistol slides snugly into its holster. His faithful knife goes into its own inside pocket. No need for ostentatious weaponry in the civilized streets of the second city. That will only attract unwanted attention from the civil constabulary.

As always, Baby is scheduled to lift off automatically if he doesn't return in 24 hours. Should anything happen to him, he doesn't want his pride and joy secured by the authorities for scrap metal.

He runs a comb through his short spiky hair. Maybe he should catch a haircut while he's in town. Pausing in the exit hatch, he salutes his favourite girl.

"Back soon, Baby."

Then he steps down onto the paved sidewalk of the Lunar metropolis.

TBC

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A/N: What will Ash have to tell Dean? More coming soon. I hope to post short chapters like this one daily.


	2. Business in the Back

A/N: Thank to everyone who reviewed and/or followed. Here's the next instalment. Dean is on the Moon, now inhabited and officially named Luna, and on his way to meet with an old friend...

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The Pompatus Box (Chapter 2: Business in the Back) by frostygossamer

* * *

Compared to a typical Terran city, Serenity still looks like a shiny new build, barely out of the box. Long pedestrian-friendly tree-lined avenues spiral out from the commercial heart, enhancing atmospheric oxygenation. Citizens lounge in outdoor cafes nursing expensive fashionable drinks, laughing, carefree and safe. Dean has reason to know the night life is great here too. He has made more than a few juicy pick-ups in this cattle-market. Liberal-minded modern women are abundant in Serenity.

The 'Moon Dreamer' tavern is in the eastern quarter, set back from the main thoroughfare in a mock-quaint little courtyard. What Ash sees in this fake-ass place Dean can't fathom. He prefers the less saccharine bierkellers of the southern sector where a man can still get himself an actual meat-burger and a glass of traditional beer for a credit fifty.

Dean finds Ash in his usual spot hidden in the snuggery of the cosy tavern, tinkering with a visualizer. He is surrounded by empty bottles of imported Terran PBR. Dean knew him when the monkey on his back was something considerably more illegal and harder to obtain. As he approaches, Ash looks up and grins.

"Captain Dean. Man, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Dean returns the grin as he pulls up a chair and flops down across from him. He signals with two fingers for the waitress to bring them more PBRs. He turns back to Ash and smiles, businesslike.

"Got a little job here on Luna. Runaway kid. His grandpa's kinda missing the little rascal."

Ash taps the visualizer. The girl places two opened bottles of beer on the table and accepts Dean's credits.

"We're talking Prince Samuel of Campobello? Grand Duke Samuel's grandson and heir, yeah? Not so little anymore. The guy's already celebrated his quarter century."

Ash eats up celebrity columns like a maiden aunt. He eagerly brings Dean up to speed on the wayward prince's story.

=O=

As a boy, young Samuel was the darling of the media. He duly blossomed into a tall, handsome and headstrong youth. All Campobello expected him to make a formal alliance with his grandfather's choice of bride, a member of his social set, Lady Amelia. However, the prince had more romantic notions about what a prince's life should be. More storybook notions.

While away at university, he met and fell in love with Jessica, a well-bred girl from a relatively poor family. Samuel had found his Cinderella. Their romance became so popular with the Campobellan people that the Grand Duke finally agreed to let their marriage go ahead, to the delight of press and public.

The young couple's happiness wasn't fated to last.

The day before the nuptials, poor Jessica tragically lost her life. Her fashionable new creation of a wedding dress caught light during a last-minute fitting. Ironically, her confection of silks, ribbons and lace was ignited by a candle flame. Poor Prince Samuel's heart was shattered. Naturally the poor kid blamed himself for his beloved's accident. Why hadn't he had the candelabra removed before the fitting. He should have known better.

The entire palace household withdrew into obligatory mourning. The last thing anyone expected was that the bridegroom would flee the city and the planet, and lose himself in the far reaches of the system, like some absurd tragic hero. The Grand Duke had tried hard to keep rumours of his disappearance out of Satellite News, without success.

=O=

Dean nods. "Yep. That'd be the fella right there. Last spotted a couple months ago jumping on a shuttle outta Port Campobello headed for Dianapolis. Hasn't been seen since."

Ash chuckles knowingly. "Not by the authorities maybe, but I have my eyes out there. Seems like he dodged immigration at Dianapolis and headed darkside. Dangerous country for a Terran city-boy. Those old terraformers like their meat young and easy."

"Can you get a line on him?" Dean sips his beer.

Ash snickers. "Man, you're looking at the dude who decrypted the viceroy's secret SECRET expense account. Two times! The system I can't hack hasn't been invented yet."

He again taps his visualizer screen for a few seconds then peers at it, a scowl settling between his eyebrows. He leans back and airily takes a swig from his bottle.

"Got a possible eyeball right outside of Boristown."

He jots the coordinates on a scrap of paper and hands it to Dean.

"It's a chicken scratch of a place. But they got themselves a high security compound. Creepy dude name of Boris calls the shots out there. That's where I'd start if I was dumb enough to go looking."

Dean snorts. "If that's where the kid's at, then that's where I'm going."

The darkside of Luna isn't only lawless country. The refuse of the terraforming process had to go someplace. The part of Luna that permanently turns it's face away from Terra was where it wound up. Heavy metal pollution and disease-carrying detritus corrupt the unlit surface, making the entire dark region a tar pit for any traveller unfamiliar with its every in and out.

Ash drains his beer. "You have time for another cold one?"

"Sorry, Ash. Need to get moving on this."

These outlawed Lunar settlements, a hangover from the terraformers' rough-and-ready camps, bristle with villains and assorted criminals on the lam from official justice. They exist on those portions of the lunar surface that have yet to be cleansed of radioactive dumps and terraforming disasters, often plaguey and pestilential. These unlawful encampments provide perfect hideouts from the long arm of the proper legal authorities. Many go there. Few return.

"Yeah? Well, good luck. You're a braver man than I am, Captain."

Dean stands up, drops a handful of credits on the table and signals to the waitress for another beer for his friend.

"It's what I do."

TBC

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A/N: Dean knows no fear. Now he has to prepare for a journey to the Dark Side. More soon.


	3. A Man of Steel

A/N: Another chapter to get the story moving. Dean's got some preparing to do for a trip to the Dark Side to find his runaway. Bit of backstory...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 3: A Man of Steel) by frostygossamer

* * *

Back aboard ship, Dean sloughs off his jacket and unbuckles his thigh holster, dropping into the big armchair in his oak-panelled library. It's time for his next shot. He trips the hidden catch on the side table and removes the black velvet bag that contains the gear he needs for his fix.

A tooled leather case contains five vials of the precious golden liquid xanthophthalmodaimonide, commonly known as YED. The 'Yellow-eyed Demon' is a powerful poison in the wrong hands, a cruel addictive in evil ones.

Dean slots an ampoule into his piston syringe and sets it down while he rolls up his sleeve and prepares his arm with a tight tourniquet. He watches without pleasure as he pushes the precious liquid into his veins. This is the same routine that he has had to perform daily ever since the age of sixteen.

That was the age when he escaped from the cold-hearted institution he grew up in. He took with him only a few credits and a handful of synth-YED tablets. He isn't proud of what he had to do to earn his first real hit, but from that day there was no going back.

Releasing the tourniquet, he sighs and sinks back into his chair. He can feel the welcome flow of narcotic entering his system, searching his veins for the receptors that linked directly to his brain and spinal cortex. It fills his body with the galvanic power that fuels his supernormal stamina and revitalizes his entire physiology.

Without this Dean can't be what he is. He can't be a daring adventurer scared of nothing and no one. He can't wade through blood and crap and disaster and bring back what other men can't from places even the brave fear to tread. And without this he would be dead.

Dead like his father, the military hero poisoned by Lunan anarchists on his first diplomatic assignment. And dead like the innocent toddler son who stole food from his plate would have been, if one of the conspirators hadn't taken pity on the four-year-old.

That guy gave the boy one more dose to keep him alive until help came. Sometimes Dean hated him the most.

=O=

General John Winchester was a hero, a much decorated example to both his men and his country. How justly proud he was to accept his royal appointment as Ambassador to the Satellite Moons. But unrest seethed as always beneath the quiet surface of intrasystem relations.

There were mutterings about precedence between Luna and the two artificial satellites, Eno and Emo, and even of a will for independence from the mother planet. There were always parties less than content with the status quo.

When he received an invitation to a banquet in honour of the new Lunar Viceroy, John little expected anarchistic activities would cause such an abrupt end to what should have been a joyful event. And to his life.

Xanthophthalmodaimonide is a curious poison. Easily identified by its luminous golden colour, hence its street name 'Yellow-eyed Demon', it is nonetheless undetectable when added to food. Invented during a previous war, it was intended as a dietary supplement for the military forces. The wonder drug grants enhanced strength, endurance, alertness and has an astonishing ability to heal the human body on a cellular level.

The miracle drug's only drawback turned out to be that volunteers tended to drop dead the very moment their next dose became overdue. So not practical on the battlefield. As a consequence, YED was banned and its manufacture went underground. An individual dose can command a premium price, but it may still be obtained, with the right contacts.

John's son Dean was a bright little boy. His doting father brought him along to the celebration as a gesture of trust. No one had meant to harm the child. But Dean was ever a greedy little thing and his father had indulged him, allowing him to share from his plate.

Right after midnight the alarm was raised. A maid discovered John's body stretched out on the bed in his guest suite in an attitude of silent agony. His son lay in his cot apparently fine, a broken ampoule of YED on the floor by its side.

For political reasons the crime was hushed up and kept out of Satellite News. No one wanted the anarchists responsible to gain from their atrocity. Dean was checked over and shipped off to a secure orphans' asylum, where he was destined to spend his entire gray childhood.

That wasn't the end for the plucky teen Dean grew into. When he reached sixteen years, Dean grew tired of his drab existence, maintained as it was by synth-YED. The inferior synthetic drug kept him alive but with none of the magical effects of the real thing. The day after his birthday he was out of there. From then on, he was on his own, illegal and outside the law.

Dean now trades for his YED on the black market, something that requires a source of credit beyond the average man's ability to lawfully earn. Credit of that level can only be obtained in exchange for the most dangerous work, something that YED enhancement fits Dean for exactly. A vicious circle.

That is why Dean became the adventurer he is today and why he needs a fast rocketship armed to the teeth. It's also why he maintains a cover as a royally commissioned rocketeer and why he never asks questions if the pay for the job is right.

The darkside of the Moon can be a very dangerous place. But Dean isn't afraid. This and only this is what he lives for.

=O=

When Dean awakes from his post-fix doze, his timepiece tells him he should make a move. He punches in the coordinates Ash gave him, and then returns to his closet to kit himself out for the perils ahead. Invigorated by the YED, he feels more than ready for the challenge of going to the darkside.

An hour later, Dean is standing by Baby's exit port surveying the scrubby vegetation that is the only perceptible indication of the terraformer's art that survived on this side of Luna. The darkside is faintly illuminated by orbiting reflectors channelling light from the lightside. Yet somehow the genetically adapted plant life still will not thrive. And neither will the human population.

The scum of Terra were recruited to work this God-forsaken side of the Moon. Prison refuse, crazy-eyed drifters and assorted filth not fit to sully the beautiful boulevards of Dianapolis, Serenity and their lawned suburbs. Out in the boondocks, men live on their wits and life is often bloody and short. A stranger in these parts is considered a pigeon to be plucked. Only a brave man would venture this far into the blackness.

Dean is such a man.

He has eschewed his tweed overcoat and light shoes for a tight fitting leather jacket and stout calf-length, button-up boots. An ammo-belt is buckled around his waist and a bandolier over his left shoulder. Both thighs sport holsters carrying matching mother-of-pearl inlaid pepperbox pistols, his favourite Bowie knife is in his belt and a shotgun is strapped to his back.

As he steps out onto the Lunar surface, whatever he finds out there he's ready for.

TBC

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A/N: The darksiders don't know what's coming. More drama tomorrow.


	4. Dark Side of the Moon

A/N: Sorry I'm a bit later with this chapter but I've been wrangling my weekly shop on-line. Now let's see Dean in action as he hits lawless territory...

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The Pompatus Box (Chapter 4: Dark Side of the Moon) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean slips under the stupidly ineffective security perimeter of Boristown, leaving the brace of ugly ruffians on guard patrol dropped where they stood. From inside a ramshackle cantina, comes the jangling discord of loud music squeezed from an old-style nickelodeon. The raucous mirth of what Dean judges as, give or take, two dozen people can be plainly heard, even above the racket.

He marches right on in. A moment of hush descends on the patrons in the cantina. Shrewd eyes assess him as he passes, then the chatter resumes. Dean walks up to the ramshackle bar and the scruffy, stubble-chinned barman fixes him with a leery glare.

"Whaddya want?"

Dean affixes a cold smile to his face. "Gimme a shot."

He leans on the counter. The guy's hand hesitates for a second over a bottle of whiskey then goes for the one behind it. He pours a slug and sets it on the bar in front of the new arrival. Dean tosses down a coin which spins on its edge for a second, distracting the barman's eye. Suddenly Dean has him by the throat.

"You wanna make that a whiskey? Because this-"

He picks up the glass and knocks it back in one gulp.

"-this toxic crap ain't so smooth."

The barman's eyes grow big as saucers. Dean snickers as he releases him. He loves what that does to people. Doped up on YED, there isn't a lot his body can't assimilate, snake venom, battery acid, even lyefish. The guy's eyes flick over Dean's shoulder as a big shadow looms up behind him and places a heavy mitt on his shoulder.

"What business ya got here, stranger?" the gravelly voice demands.

Dean turns his head to find a huge, squat hulk of a man standing beside him, a big, ragged scar right across his face. An eyepatch hides what is left of a shrivelled socket. The guy bares his teeth and snarls.

"You're gonna wish you'd stayed where you belong, citizen."

Dean gives him an assessing look. "You Boris? 'Cause, if that's you, I got a sweet deal you won't wanna miss."

Pulling a machete from his waistband, the guy brings it down on Dean's arm where he leans on the counter. The knife cuts through to bone with a sickening thunk. Dean looks at the blood seeping through his sleeve for a moment while the grunt grins down at his nasty handiwork.

"Now that's gonna smart." Dean flexes movement back into his fingers.

He makes a mental note to get the damage to his favourite jacket invisibly mended when he gets back to Serenity.

The guy drops his machete in shock and Dean takes the opportunity to reach back and pull his scattergun off of his back. He aims it at the guy's balls.

"You wanna take me to your leader? Or have you always had a hankering to sing soprano?"

A couple guys rush him from behind and he flings them both off bodily like they are stuffed with feathers, laughing grimly. Things are kicking off and he's so ready for this. Chairs scrape as other guys rise to their feet keen to join in the fray. They crowd in toward him, but he isn't worried.

He has done this before so many times.

=O=

Outside in the can, Boris's ears shoot up at the sound of gunfire. Grabbing his pants, he hurries, as fast as a scared-clumsy guy can, back toward his office out back of the bar. He gets inside and is busy stuffing his pockets from the safe when the inner door flies open.

Glancing up, he sees a handsome-faced Adonis, clothed in tight leather and dripping with other guys' blood and brains, standing in the doorway with a pepperbox in each hand. He's blocking the light, but only enough that Boris can still make out the flames that are already beginning to engulf his bar.

"Hi, I'm Dean, your nemesis. You Boris?" The guy's voice is a deep, rasping growl.

Boris feels he really shouldn't answer that question, but his face does the job.

"You holding a kid here? Couple months outta Terra, long streak, floppy hair, big sad eyes?"

That much Dean got from the mugshot Jo wired him.

The rubber-faced, bushy-haired guy squints. "If I am?"

"Then, trust me, you don't want him around. I'm the vanguard, buddy, and you gotta know Hell is on my heels."

Boris would quake in his cowardly boots if he hadn't left them behind in his dash from the primitive comfort station.

"Oh yeah?" He lifts his scrubby chin defiantly, but trembles all the same.

"Hell yeah. You got him, you wanna hand him over. While you still got your knees."

Dean gestures with his pistol as the shorter man draws in a sharp breath. Boris's eyes dart toward his desk. He has a loaded twin-barrel in the top drawer if he can get to it. He takes a wild lunge and a bullet chips the wood of the desk right beside his ear.

Dean tuts, shaking his head. "That's the kinda move'll get ya dead real fast."

Boris is a heap on the floor. "OK. Loft above the floating ironclad hangar. There's some kid up there Milo brought in. Maybe he's your guy?"

Dean gasps, impressed. "You got a freakin' hovertank?! Awesome!"

With Boris lying cold-cocked across his blotter, it doesn't take Dean a whole lot of time to locate a military hovertank on the property.

They aren't so easy to hide.

=O=

The ladder leading up to the loft creaks loudly as Dean places his foot on the bottom rung. He slides back in the shadows as a scruffy head appears through the ceiling trapdoor and peers around suspiciously. Milo presumably. The head withdraws without a word, telling Dean that the guy is on guard duty up there on his own. Great. Easy win.

Dean bobs down, picks up a discarded wrench from the dusty floor and flings it against the opposite wall. The head appears again, this time looking more concerned. The trapdoor is fastened back and Milo steps down onto the ladder.

"That's right," thinks Dean. "Come on down. Check out the frisky moonrats."

The guy hasn't put foot one down on luna firma before he has a spike stuck between his shoulder blades. He falls limp into the dust at Dean's feet like a sack of moon rock.

Dean toes the body to one side before shinning up the ladder. He pokes his head up through the trap warily. Maybe there IS a second, perhaps Trappist, guard up there, but there's no sign. Only one empty plate and tin cup stand beneath the weak oil-lamp on the small rickety table where Milo enjoyed his last meal.

The coast seems clear.

TBC

* * *

A/N: What's Dean going to find in the loft? I promise I'll be faster with the next chapter. More coming soon.


	5. An Impossible Vehicle

A/N: Right my on-line food order's arrived and been stowed away so time for a new chapter. Dean is searching for the runaway on Boris's land. Is he in the loft over the floating ironclad? Got to love that concept...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 5: An Impossible Vehicle) by frostygossamer

* * *

Drawing his pistol, Dean steps from the ladder into the loft room and checks out the scenery. Aside from the table and an old chair, the only things in the room are a mussed up cot and a man-sized cage built of stout metal bars. On the floor of the cage lies a lanky-built figure, unmoving.

"Hey."

There's no reply. Dean finds a broom leaning against the wall and prods the still body. It sprawls flat, lifeless. He was afraid of this. The guy is already gone.

"Damn."

He's too goddamn late. Looks like Milo wouldn't have hacked it as a nursemaid, letting his charge freakin' DIE that way.

"Samuel, you sorry son of a bitch, the hell were you thinking, messing with these people?"

The big payday for Dean has flown out the window. Why the heck would a soft-as-crap scion of old-time Terran royalty want to skedaddle to the far side of nowhere anyways? How could he have wound up dead in a crap-station like this when he's barely old enough to drive an eco-car? Freakin' idjit.

OK, so the poor kid has seen some personal tragedy. Heck, Dean has been in that place, but HE had to learned to suck it up and keep on trucking. That there is Dean's whole philosophy. On good days. On bad days there's always YED. Even though that crap is kind of a little death every time.

As Dean mopes over these dark thoughts, his ears detect a faint groan coming from the ruffled up bed in the corner. There's something in there, down under the pile of rags that pass for covers. Dean walks over and points his weapon at the heap of blankets while he lifts one corner with the broom he's still carrying in his other hand. He half expects it to be nothing more than Milo's dog, but it could be a very sound-sleeping co-worker.

He's a little surprised by the youth of the cot's occupant. Thin and dirty but not much more than twenty, the guy looks like he hasn't eaten in days. He squirms and screws his eyes against the light. Dean drops his stick and thumbs open one of the kid's eyelids. A hazel eye, glazed and blown. This guy is most certainly out of it on something.

Dean holsters his piece and drags out Jo's mugshot. Yeah, well, could be. Dean can't help the smirk that lights up his face. Maybe the job won't be a washout after all. All he has to do is get the kid back to his rocketship.

Well, there IS a floating ironclad downstairs.

=O=

Luckily no one has thought to hide the keys. Dean finds them in the ignition of the hovertank after dumping the kid's limp body through the hatch and joining him.

"OK. Never driven one of these, but there's a first time for everything."

The engine purrs into life with a snarl. Dean forgot to open the double doors, but then who needs to open doors when you are in a hovertank?

Outside, random bad guys are milling about like headless chickens. They're aware something is going down but have no clue what to do about it. The crash of the floating ironclad demolishing its hangar brings them all running.

Ironically, they don't have the firepower to stop a hovertank. They didn't know they would need it. It's THEIR tank, after all. Dean steers triumphantly over the electrified fence and out into open country. The darksiders are soon left behind, turning the air blue with ineffectual cussing.

A few miles farther on, Dean digs the hovertank in under a moon-dune and waits for things to die down.

=O=

Back at his ship, Dean lugs his dopey prize in through the airlock.

"Hi, Baby, I'm home."

The ship's take-off countdown halts when she identifies her pilot's voice.

Although not totally unconscious any longer, the befuddled Samuel is still too far gone to stand on his own two feet. They trail behind him as Dean takes his weight over one shoulder, ignoring the guy's protesting mumbles.

Dean gasps. "Jeez! Who knew you were gonna be such a freakin' monster?"

He drags the barely resisting form into his self-regulating Auto-Decontaminator suite and dumps him on the treatment table. Mechanical restraints snap out and wrap around the guy's limbs holding him in place against weak protest. Machines begin assessing him immediately, lights and dials flickering as data is catalogued and processed.

Dean sighs and leaves his guest to be antisepticized and detoxed by his state-of-the-art unit. Closing the door of the suite behind him, he seals the guy in. The row of indicator lamps along the top of the door will tell him if and when he's safe to let out. All Dean himself needs, this time, is to check out his already healing arm and take a super-long steam-shower. And he's really ready for that shower.

He burps and groans. And maybe a purgative to clear his system of that random substance the cantina guy served him.

=O=

The shower is delicious. Hot jets of oxygenated water bathe Dean's skin, stripping away layers of poisonous grit and massaging his tired muscles, like a hundred skilful hands sensually caressing his body. Who needs sex when water pressure can stimulate the flesh this way?

He lingers under the hot water until he's rosy and glowing. Then, tearing himself away, he returns to the cool of the main cabin, where he selects a black silk turtleneck and slacks and slips them on.

When he lifts a lever on the wall, a section slides open. A window to the Auto-Decontaminator unit is revealed. There his captive remains confined and prostrate under treatment. Dean idly notes that the guy must have been quite a looker before he got himself wasted. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong-boned, man-sized. Not exactly a kid anymore.

The machines have cut away and stripped the guy of all his clothing. As they carefully wash his luxuriant hair and bathe his tanned naked skin, the mask obscuring his face is pushing cleansing gases through his lungs and laving his insides with a cocktail of healing fluids.

Dean makes a mental note. Before he hands the guy over to his loving grandfather, it won't hurt to get him back into some semblance of shape. He's sure grandpa would prefer to get back something that looks more like the grandson he lost. Also, more remuneratively, Dean can charge more hours to the job if he doesn't surrender his guest too early. After all, any other operative would have taken two times as long as Dean to acquire the guy.

He pulls the lever again and the panel slides back in place.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Dean has saved Sam from the darksiders. Hurrah! So much for the subplot. Now the adventure part can begin. More soon.


	6. Escort Duty

A/N: Dean has young Prince Samuel confined aboard and Dean is on downtime. For now...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 6: Escort Duty) by frostygossamer

* * *

Satellite News is the organ of intelligence throughout Terra and her multi-satellite system. Broadcast from an HQ on the motherworld, it has a Terran bias, naturally, but the standard of journalism is high. Relayed throughout all the colonies, it brought welcome news from home to early settlers. It now helps to unite the Earth and her moons under one banner, Freedom of Information. It's undoubtedly worthy in intent but sometimes it can serve less than worthy interests.

Dean can remember seeing good news items about the young royal now in his charge during his own time growing up in that hated orphan institution. He and his fellow inmates were forced to loyally watch Satellite News as part of their so-called education.

The sight of that privileged little Fauntleroy, up there on the visualizer, only rubbed in the orphans' sad situation. The staff didn't seem to get the irony. Or maybe they did and that was the point. Show them how the 'more deserving' lived. Taunt them with what they could never have. Family.

When Dean's mom died in an incendiary attack, his father away being a war hero, John became all the family Dean had left. After John was murdered, Dean had nothing, was nothing. That stupid blue-blood prince had a whole loving network to support him. So what was he doing trying to get himself dead in the butthole of oblivion? Doesn't he know how lucky he is?

Dean has no time for dumb ingratitude like that. What he needs is a drink.

=O=

It's a few days after the darkside incident. Dean is listening to Satellite News, out of habit, and toying with a cut glass tumbler of fine malt whiskey. He's leaning back in his comfortable armchair, enjoying the smooth flavour of the expensive liquor, when he's interrupted by the tingling of a bell. It's a message from Convoy Control. He flicks a switch and the image of Jo's politely smiling face floats before him. The second she sees Dean the smile morphs into a beam of sunshine.

"Hi, Dean. How's it going? Found our missing prince yet?"

Dean smiles back at her, radiating charm. "Got leads."

He's careful not to sound too confident. "I'm thinking one or two might go someplace."

"Oh great! I'm really hoping you find this guy. Used to have a big old crush on Prince Sammy. He was so cute, um, back when I was eight or nine."

Dean feels the slightest pang of... No, it isn't jealousy. Jo is like a little sister to him, and he values that. She knows a lot more about him and what he does than most, but there isn't and can never be more between them. He can't do that to such a nice girl. Dangerous guys like Dean do NOT have relationships, let alone relationships with sweet, respectable girls like Assistant Convoy Control Officer Jo Harvelle. Especially when he sometimes lies to her.

"Looks like it could turn out a bigger job than we first thought, Jo. Gonna need a little extra for expenses on this one. Old man good for it?"

Jo grins. Campobello is a small but prosperous state. The Grand Duke is metaphorically rolling in it.

"Sure he is, Dean. He'll fork out whatever it takes. Grandson's the apple of his eye, not to mention a favourite target for the paparazzi. He keeps Campobello in the society columns."

Dean whistles. "Awesome. Guess we can write our own paycheck on this one then, huh?"

"Uh-huh. Take whatever time you need, Dean, but bring the guy home."

Dean raises his glass. "Jo, that's what I do."

"OK, keep me updated."

With the unofficial business out of the way, Jo moves on to the official reason she called.

"Uh, and in the meantime, they need you on convoy duty again. There's an official transport leaving Terra tomorrow at dawn and they're expecting trouble. There'll be a Diplomatic Courier aboard."

Dean's day job is riding shotgun on transport convoys for the Terran shipping company. That is how he keeps his license to captain a rocketship and operate her in the official space lanes. It's an honest living, although it doesn't attract anything like enough credit to bankroll his YED habit.

"Where they bound?"

Scheduled transports take off regularly for all three of Terra's moons. Dean has contacts everyplace, but he has a definite favourite amongst the three satellites.

"Eno."

Dean punches the air. Eno, the first of the two man-made moons to be constructed, was intended as a home-world for the overflow of scientists, engineers and technologists Terra's bow wave of industrial progress was generating. The institution Dean grew up in didn't provide him with much more than a basic education, but he can appreciate guys who know their way around an engine and whose national anthem is a modern rock classic.

He doesn't hold the same regard for Eno's slightly younger sister Emo. Conceived as a home for the arts, abode of poets, philosophers and dreamers, it has never endeared itself to him at all. Emo's fashionable artsy-fartsiness and equivocal attitude to right and wrong offend him somehow.

Dean really HATES Emo. He lets out a relieved breath.

"Great. Eno. Guess I can pick up some spares and supplies for Baby while I'm over there."

Jo snickers. "Yeah, sure, Dean. But don't get too cocky about the assignment. There've been rumours of Selenite pirate activity on the Terra-Eno run. It's not going to be a breeze this time."

Sure, Dean has picked up on Satellite News items about latent hostility between Eno and the mother planet, but he's never paid them much attention. Teenage tantrums happen.

"Pirates, huh? I'll believe that when I see them."

Dean has heard those rumours too, but he gives them little credence. Selenite pirates sound like something from science fiction. They have to be regular hijackers out of Terra, or even Emo where they tolerate almost anyone. He wouldn't put it past the dipsticks of Emo to think pirates are romantic and exciting. And Emo doesn't exactly have a cordial relationship with it's twin.

Besides, those mythical Selenites don't exist. The earliest terraformers proved that, right? Luna never had an aboriginal population, of anything. It was a dead world before the Terrans brought it to life.

Still, this duty assignment is honest work and Dean has nothing better to do until he's ready to hand back his newest charge to his loving family. It will give the idiot the chance to heal and even put on an inch or two of fat. Maybe Dean can talk him into being grateful he actually has a loving family to go home too and staying put this time.

"Fine, Jo. Wire me the data and I'll be there, fired up and ready to go."

Jo supplies the details, Terra-date, coordinates, and they show up in Dean's diary automatically. Baby will compute the flight plan. All Dean has to do is rest up.

"Out." Jo's image vanishes as the transmission ends.

Dean decides to get some sleep before his rendezvous.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Just another regular assignment. But will it be as easy as it sounds? Next chapter will be along very soon.


	7. Pirate Ship Ahoy!

A/N: I've given Dean time to catch up with the transport ship. Now we'll see him in escort action.

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 7: Pirate Ship Ahoy!) by frostygossamer

* * *

Baby falls in with the convoy two hours out of Houston. There are three other muscle-ships also acting as outriders. Dean notes the heavy-duty protection.

"Must be DAMN nervous about this pirate threat. Or this courier guy is one important dude."

He isn't anticipating any trouble he can't handle. Small transports like this one, carrying a few wealthy passengers out to the three moons, are sometimes harassed by unregistered fliers intent on extorting a little protection money from the shipping line. No ship has actually been boarded since the earliest days. Modern vessels have security measures implemented to prevent exactly that kind of thing. The convoy system has practically ended any real danger.

Dean is in his cockpit. Around him visualizers show the endless vista of space beyond his capsule, unimaginably old and velvet-black. He can easily pick out the lights of the transport on his port bow and the flares of another two rocketships, above and below him. An older speedster is farther to his port, beyond the bigger ship, covering the opposite flank of the convoy.

He hails the transport. A 3-D hologram of the Convoy Commander appears above his console. The handsome older woman is Captain Ellen Harvelle, Jo's mother. An officer of the Terran space fleet, Ellen is officially unaware of the less legal side of Jo and Dean's collaboration. But she's no fool.

"Captain Harvelle," Dean greets her.

"Captain Dean. Glad to see you've joined us."

Dean has been part of Ellen's convoy escort on several occasions before. Dean has nothing but respect for the Convoy Commander. The fact that Captain Harvelle is also a fine-looking older woman doesn't do any harm to Dean's opinion of her. Like her daughter, Ellen is far from hard on the eye.

"Delighted to be here, Ellen."

Ellen gets straight down to business. "There are four of you escorting on this trip..."

She patches in all four outriders in a group holographic call.

"Captains, uh, Henriksen..."

Henriksen salutes. A decorated space-flier, he's the official military escort. Dean prefers to keep under this man's radar. He has to allow he's justified to be proud of what he does, even if he seems to use way too much starch in his underwear.

"Walker..."

Gordon Walker flashes a broad, cheeky grin. This guy is a freelancer like Dean though, in Dean's opinion, he tends to be a little too reckless and a grandstander. He's not a guy to rely on when your life is on the line.

"Dean..."

The others murmur approvingly. Dean isn't universally popular, but he's not exactly universally unpopular either. That is how he likes it.

"And Turner..."

Dean is glad to hear Turner is in the line-up. If there ever was a man to have at your back that would have been Rufus Turner, in his day. Now in his sixties, Turner's reflexes are a little less sharp than they once were. Still, he can be counted on to always back up a friend.

"Hey, Rufus," Dean greets him.

"Hey, Dean. Nice to see ya, kid."

Dean has to snicker. Not that he wouldn't be happy to have this guy as a father figure, but Turner is, if anything, more of a hermit than Dean. Not really parent material.

Ellen breaks up the reunion. "OK. So this is the game plan-"

The words are scarcely out of her mouth before sirens start sounding aboard the transport ship. She is interrupted by Henriksen.

"Bogey at 3 o'clock!"

Dean's eyes snap to his visualizer. An unidentified blip has shown up and is closing on the convoy fast, beam weapons primed. Dean and Walker peal off immediately and engage the intruder. Henriksen moves into defensive mode on the transport. Turner hangs easy, ready to run interference if things go bad.

The interloper is a ship of non-standard design. With its profusion of power modifications, it screams smuggler. A ship with thrusters of that heft is intended for one thing only, outrunning the law.

"It's a Selenite pirate!" Walker shouts into his intercommunicator.

"Pirate maybe. Selenite I doubt," Dean comes back. "Albino monkeys wouldn't be flying any turbocharged hotrod like that baby."

Walker sneers. "Albino freakin' monkeys? You been reading too much sci-fi, man."

The bogey is starting an evasive maneuver. Walker puts his foot on the gas and chases his smoke, while Dean tries to come about and head off his escape. Glancing across, Dean sees Walker's mistake before he does and yells over his intercommunicator.

"Gordon, you're too close! Gonna get your ass fried."

Walker slams on his thrusters, as the party-crasher tacks hard and leaves him tasting the afterburn. He curses loudly.

"Damn and crap! Shields up, dudes!"

Sadly, Walker's manually operated shields are less than cutting-edge. Dean has to chuckle dryly. He would never stint on HIS Baby's bolt-on extras, like solar window tints and goddamn safety shields.

Dean fires a warning shot across the bow of the enemy vessel, close enough to singe the space pirate's beard. The ship swings around to the other side of the transport and Henriksen follows him, weapons blazing, tracers tearing the ether.

Turner joins Dean as Walker pulls back, his ship momentarily limping, wounded.

"You OK, guys?" a concerned Turner wants to know.

"Fine," answers Dean. "Walker, stay with the transport. Rufus, pincer, you copy?"

"Copy," they both respond.

The pirate executes a beautiful arc in space, easily evading Henriksen, and finds a blind spot under the transport. Dean notes that the bogey seems to hang for a second before rolling and accelerating away. Suddenly the stranger seems all about fleeing. He and Turner have no trouble chasing him off. The blip on their visualizers finally disappears toward Emo.

"No surprise there," thinks Dean. "Freakin' Emoan thrill seeker, like I guessed."

Walker cheers. "Chalk one up for the team."

Dean isn't so sure. He has the nagging feeling that bogey was maybe toying with them.

Turner confirms his opinion. "Made it look easy."

Dean agrees. "What I thought."

TBC

* * *

A/N: Rufus is an astute guy. There could be something fishy going down here. More soon.


	8. Nine for Dinner

A/N: You'll have been wondering about Sam? Well, here's a taste. And a bunch of main players make their first appearance here also. Plus a guest reference (although he is a namecheck from the show). :)

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 8: Nine for Dinner) by frostygossamer

* * *

Once the convoy makes it into Lunar space, it's the custom to invite escort captains aboard for dinner. This gives the transport's passengers the opportunity to meet with and thank their protectors. It's one of the perks of the job and Dean never turns down an invite to a good meal.

He's busy stripping down ready to change into his dress blues. Rocking a little to a favourite AC/DC track 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap', he hears banging from inside the Auto-Decontaminator suite.

Dean uses the wall lever to expose the viewing window. His guest has evidently released himself from his restraints and is slapping the shatterproof glass with his palms, demanding attention. This guy could turn out to be a pain in the butt.

The guy's eyes fall on Dean, who is standing there barefoot in shirt and drawers with his dress pants in his hand. He shouts, his voice muffled by the glass.

"Hey, man! When are you gonna let me outta here? Who the hell are you anyways? Where the hell is this place? And what the hell is that freakin' noise?

That attitude isn't going to endear him to his rescuer. Dean is sensitive about his music.

"That NOISE is Classic Rock. Not exactly the marching band Sousa you're used to, I guess."  
Dean surveys him for a moment. He doesn't exactly carry an air of royal authority, standing there totally bare-assed and dripping wet, his long hair plastered to his face. Unconcerned, Dean gets on with stepping into his pants.

"My name is Dean. Captain Dean. You're aboard my ship. And you're gonna stay in there until the program has finished. Then I'm gonna take your ass home to Gramps."

"The hell you will!" the guy yells, then asks more nervously, "What freakin' program?"

Dean slips on his blue-black jacket and proceeds to do up its many fiddly buttons without looking at him. He already knows what a naked guy looks like.

"Decontamination program. When I picked you up on Luna you looked, and smelled, like crap. And I'm not gonna let any funky douchebag foul up my Baby. She's a classic rocketship, practically one of a kind, worth one hell of a lot more to me than you. But you, my friend, are worth big bucks if I can get you home to your ever-loving grandpapa in one wholesome piece. So suck it up, dude. You're gonna get tumble-washed, fluffed and folded, like it or not."

Finishing up his buttons, Dean pulls the lever to re-close the window. The inmate follows the panel along as it moves over the glass.

"Hey! I am so NOT gonna go home to my freakin' grandfather. And the name is Sam. Remember that. Sam."

Dean guesses they probably get trained that way. It's to encourage kidnappers to think of them as a person.

He shrugs. Good luck on that.

=O=

When Dean walks into the dining room of the transport ship, he finds the officers, passengers and guests standing around chatting and sipping cocktails. There are four passengers this trip, three young ladies and a slim gent in a dark tailored suit carrying a black leather portmanteau. Dean's practiced philanderer's eye takes in the ladies in great detail with a single glance.

A petite brunette, from her laid-back manner somewhat self-important, dressed in a dark red velvet gown of French couture, is communing with Walker. She's dripping with jewels. Genuine ice. This is a wealthy lady. A taller blonde in a demure little black dress hovers close by, dancing attendance. Evidently a lackey of some sort, possibly her Personal Assistant.

Walker, that fast mover, breaks away to move in on a slim, raven-haired beauty standing a little apart from them in a khaki waistcoat and skirt over a linen shirt. A sportive type, Dean guesses hopefully, as the lilting sound of her laughter drifts toward him.

They haven't noticed Dean yet.

He coughs and the room falls silent for a breath as everyone turns and eyes him appreciatively. He smirks a little inside. He's used to having this effect on people.

Some guys have just got it.

He winks at Turner and at Henriksen, who averts his eyes and walks away. The moment she spots the new arrival, the Convoy Commander, Captain Harvelle, excuses herself politely and comes over to greet him.

"Captain Dean. At last you're here. We're almost ready to sit down and eat."

Dean notes a slight reprimand in her voice, but he likes that she's already talking food.

"Chef Fieri in the galley tonight?"

"Uh-huh. He was so psyched to hear you'd be joining us. Chef loves a discriminating diner."

"Oh, I'd discriminate in favour of his cooking anytime," Dean quips.

He has been a fan of Fieri for the longest time. As well as being an excellent cordon bleu, he can knock out a gourmet cheeseburger with all the trimmings at a moment's notice. Dean would be glad to marry the guy, if he only swung that way.

Which he would like to point out he does not.

=O=

Captain Harvelle leads the way to the long banquet table decked out with crisp linen, fancy silverware and even candlesticks. The escort captains are seated alternately with the guests, Ellen at the head of the table. Henriksen, the stiff-backed military escort, occupies the captain's left while her most important passenger, Mr. Death, occupies her right. Death is, Ellen informs them, a Diplomatic Courier conveying a diplomatic pouch between Terra and Eno. He dips his head politely in acknowledgement.

Dean is ushered into the chair beside elegant gent Death, who bestows on him a gentlemanly smile. He's inclined to think the gray dude suits his name and is pleased to see the very attractive, sportive Miss Braeden take the chair on his right. She answers his smile with a flirtatious one of her own. OK, game on. Beyond her sits Walker, who isn't blind to her charms either. The two men exchange a quick look. May the best man win.

Left of Henriksen, and across from Dean, sits the wealthy and somewhat mysterious Miss Masters. She's a shrewd businesswoman with a sardonic manner to whom, for some reason, Dean feels a natural aversion. On her left is Rufus, looking hungry, and, at the end of the table opposite Walker, Miss Masters' companion and PA, the cool blonde Miss de'Mon, silent but missing nothing.

As the dinner progresses Dean pulls out all the stops to captivate his female neighbour. Miss Braeden, he discovers, is an explorer and has lately returned from extensive travel around India. There she spent some time studying the wisdom of the yogis, adding hatha yoga practitioner to her portfolio of talents. Dean is more than intrigued.

Walker's attempts at chatting up Miss Braeden amount to a few fairly funny jokes and a decent story about his experiences hunting down traces of Selenites, back when supposed sightings were still hot gossip. Under other circumstances he might come off as moderately cool, but not tonight. When Dean's pretty face has all the young woman's attention from the off, no dice.

Dean eyes her slim, wiry figure none too subtly.

"So, uh, yoga, Miss Braeden. Guess that's gonna mean you're good and supple."

She scolds him, but with a note of humour.

"Yoga is a serious discipline of the body and the mind. And do please call me Lisa, Captain Dean."

"Dean," he corrects her.

He uses the waiter serving the soup from Death's right as an excuse to lean into her space, his smile dripping with charm.

"So, uh, Lisa? Rhymes with teaser, hmm?"

A naughty comment but he gambles she can take it. He's seldom wrong. He's an old hand at this game.

Lisa giggles, responding archly, "Maybe."

Dean beams. Awesome. This is going so GOOD.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Note for Lisa lovers/haters: The lady will appear in a couple more chapters, but she is NOT a love interest, more another info source, so bear with me. :) More very soon.


	9. Introductions

A/N: Now they get down to the meal. And I'm sure Dean would pay more attention to the introduction of the MacGuffin if he wasn't too busy looking down Lisa's cleavage...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 9: Introductions) by frostygossamer

* * *

The starter is fish. Dean is right there to help Lisa when she gets a tiny bone stuck in her palate. Leaning her head back, she allows him to intrude a careful finger into her mouth. As he withdraws it she lets her tongue toy with his digit playfully.

"There you are."

She titters prettily. "Why, Dean, you have such a sensitive touch."

Oh, they are SO on for later. He can hardly wait until the dinner is over.

Then the main course is brought in, and Dean being Dean the foodie, his attention to the lady is deflected, ever so slightly. It's roast beef with all the trimmings. A presentation worthy of jolly old Henry VIII himself.

Chef really has pulled out all the stops tonight. It's not often that Dean gets to enjoy a haunch of meat of this size and quality on the cash he has left over from his special medical bills. Lisa, surprisingly not having espoused vegetarianism on her eastern travels, is also delighted and they both revel in the abundance of roast flesh.

Lisa helps herself to as sizeable a portion of beef as he does, and she tucks into it greedily, eyes sparkling and delicious meaty juice dripping from the corner of her pretty mouth. Dean finds the sight strangely arousing. She hums as he wipes away the beefy trickle with a corner of his napkin. Then she laughs and arches a sable brow.

"Thank you, Dean. Guess I should take more care exactly what I stuff in my mouth."

As intended, Dean's loins receive a jolt of anticipatory stimulation. Lisa knows what she's doing to him.

=O=

Walker has been observing these two flirting over their food with a tinge of envy. How is it that he never gets with the girl when that mannequin Dean is around? Can't she see that the guy is a gold-plated jerk? He grumbles to himself as Dean throws him a smirk of cheeky triumph over Lisa's shoulder.

After the dessert is cleared away, Captain Harvelle asks the passengers if they would like to tell the assemblage their purpose in visiting Eno. Miss Masters responds with a haughty huff, but Lisa is happy to oblige.

It seems she's on her way to Eno to take up a post as resident tantric yoga trainer and therapist, with a forward-thinking technology company based on the satellite. Reading between the lines, it's basically a perk to encourage their creative staff's inventive minds and discourage them from moving on to greener pastures.

Dean imagines it could almost be worth working for a company thoughtful enough to supply its employees with regular tantric diversion.

Entrepreneuse Miss Masters is a little more cagey about her intentions. All she will say is that she has delicate financial negotiations to oversee on Eno, something that she won't trust to a subordinate. With commercial interests on Terra, Luna and Eno, she's still a hands-on manager and prefers to see the whites of a man's eyes when doing business.

Dean can believe that. The spiky female looks like she takes no prisoners.

Mr Death is at first reluctant to speak, not out of an unwillingness to cooperate but more because, as a diplomat, discretion has become his second nature. This is especially true given the current climate of tension between Terra and her most technically advanced satellite.

He does at least agree to show them his diplomatic pouch, or rather bag in this case. His portmanteau has never left his side since he left Terra. It lies, even now, at his feet under the dining table.

He opens it up and takes out the single mysterious item it contains.

It's a small box about one foot long, eight inches wide and six inches in depth. Built of reclaimed coromandel wood, the box is held together with heavy brass hinges and closed with an ornate locking mechanism. On the front of the box is inlaid the strange word Pompatus, in fancy gold lettering.

"Pomp-, uh, Pompatus. Seriously? Horsefeathers! That's not even real Latin." Miss Masters' tone is derisive.

Death smiles. "Ma'am, you may be right. But I fancy it will mean something to the recipient of the gift."

"And who is that, can we ask?" inquires Lisa.

Death explains slowly and with a certain note of awe.

"I can only say it was sent from the desk of the President of Terra directly to the President of Eno, Miss Braeden, a very important consignment indeed. It's VERY important that it gets to him in one piece and UN-opened. Its significance, however, is unknown to me."

Walker cheekily voices the obvious question.

"So what is IN the box, friend? Gonna let us peek inside? 'Cause I-"

Miss Masters laughs, interrupting him.

"Please NO, Mr. Death. It would spoil the wonderful secret. Don't you go opening a present before the day. Where I come from we're still superstitious about that kind of thing."

Death nods in agreement. "As a Diplomatic Courier, Captain Walker, it's not my business to know what I deliver, merely to deliver it. Intact."

He carefully places the small box back in his bag unopened and firmly snaps it closed.

"I guess maybe the whole thing's some kinda symbolism anyways?" suggests the perceptive Turner.

Death nods again. "Possibly."

After brandy has been passed around and everyone has partaken who cares too, the party breaks up and moves to the captain's sitting room. Lisa discreetly separates Dean from the others and drags him in the direction of her cabin.

Dean is more than willing to go along.

=O=

Once inside her stateroom, Lisa closes the door firmly and pushes Dean up against it, tearing off her waistcoat and letting it drop. She loosens her raven-black hair, which falls in coils down her back like waves of tangible night. Her dark eyes promise depths of undiscovered pleasure.

"Finally, we're alone," she breathes.

She nips his earlobe between her teeth. She's frisky, and Dean loves it when they are frisky. She presses her body up against his and, as their lips meet, she can feel his heart beat fast against the stays of her corset. She begins to unbutton her blouse. He helps her out of it, kissing first one perfect shoulder then the other. When she pulls her slim but well-defined arms from the sleeves of the garment and lets it fall to the floor, she reveals a bodice crammed with ripe breasts, plump and alluring.

Dean leans forward, planting his face in those pink mounds, one arm tight around her body. The other hand tugs up the fabric of her skirt so he can get his hand under her petticoats. He lifts her to straddle his waist and carries her the two or three steps to the bed, where he drops her on her back and immediately kneels between her legs. She laughs lightly and pulls his face down to kiss her again, kicking off her shoes and winding her legs around him.

"I do believe you've done this before, Captain Dean," she jests, coyly.

He grins against her skin. "Whenever opportunity presents itself."

There's no need to undress completely. They both know what they want, and that is immediate gratification. Neither of them is here to give. They are here only to take what they need. Dean rips open his dress jacket, giving himself room to breathe, and begins to fumble open his pants. Lisa loosens and throws off her corset, then wriggles her sheer silk panties down to her ankles.

There follows a good deal of panting, and creaking from the bed springs, as the two come together with a ferocity born of hunger and the clandestine nature of their congress. Eventually Dean rolls on his back at Lisa's side spent, and they catch their breath together for a while.

Lisa's hand finds Dean's and she squeezes it, an unexpected token of empathy. He kind of likes it. A perceptive woman, she feels she can sense an unspoken sadness in him.

In actuality, Dean never shares with casual pick-ups. That's not what his womanizing is about. Wham, bam and all that... But then Lisa isn't just any chick. She's a budding therapist.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Bit of a brief encounter. But this is half a scene so look out for the next bit when I've had my tea. :)


	10. A Woman's Eye

A/N: One last chapter aboard the transport. Dean can't help pumping his sources. ;)

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 10: A Woman's Eye) by frostygossamer

* * *

Lisa didn't get into religious mysticism and esoteric eastern philosophy just for kicks. She's a genuinely compassionate woman. She may be liberal in her sexual behaviour but, inside, she has a warm and motherly heart. She knows a liberated female should have no compunction about kicking this casual liaison out of bed when he has satisfied her needs, but she can sense Dean's blue-gray aura. She can't help feeling he could use a little talking cure.

"Sex can be the best therapy of all, you know? If I wasn't into the wisdom of the Hindus maybe I could make a career in that other wisdom of the ancients. It's a calling of sorts."

Dean chokes out a bitter laugh.

"In an ideal world maybe, honey. But, the way the world turns today, I'd stay the hell away from that line of work. It's nowhere near as much fun as it looks."

Time was, he may have been desperate enough to dabble, but he swore that he would never go there again and he has never had to. Lisa leans up on one elbow and assesses him thoughtfully for a moment. She smiles and runs her fingertip around the masculine line of his jaw.

"I'd given up on there being any recreation on this trip."

"Fellow passengers not a bundle of laughs?"

From what he has seen, her fellow passengers certainly lack Lisa's youthful joie de vivre.

She laughs. "The only male companionship I've had is from Mr. Death and, quite honestly, you'd believe that man could be as old as God. I've never met anyone so content with his own company. He actually sleeps with that black bag of his."

"The guy does seem kinda bloodless."

"Doesn't he. And those two independent ladies, Meg Masters and Ruby de'Mon? They're a little too interested in each other, If you ask me. Have you noticed the way Ruby follows her boss around like some...?"

Lisa trails off, searching for the least inappropriate phraseology.

"Like some mother hen?" suggests Dean.

She scoffs. "No, no, like a tiger possessive of its mate. Companion? Now that's a euphemism if ever I heard one."

Dean ponders. It's a possibility, he admits. Neither lady showed him as much interest as he was used to from the fair sex. Maybe he should have made bigger of an effort to be friendly. He isn't averse to a threesome, should the opportunity present itself.

"So you think Masters and de'Mon are getting it on, huh? Awesome."

"They act kinda shifty about SOMETHING."

His eyes go distant for a second and Lisa prods him with her finger, laughing.

"Stop it, you pervert. You don't know how annoying that is when I'm lying right here neglected."

Dean winks naughtily. "Give me a minute and I'll put that right."

"Fine. So, uh, meantime, how does someone get to be an official escort flier anyways? You pass an awesomeness test?"

"Got me a fast ship. She's my baby."

=O=

Dean has a right to be proud of his vessel. When he found her in a scrapyard, Baby was a wreck. Some rich-boy speed freak had crashed her nose first into a lunar crater, showing off to his fraternity buddies. The jerk-ass wound up in well-deserved full-body cast.

Dean lovingly restored the once sleek machine to her former glory. He was aided by a friendly Enoan space mechanic named Singer, an old soldier who had served with his father.

He ripped out the co-pilot's quarters and installed a reconditioned top-of-the-line decontamination suite: healing unit, shower, sauna, drinking water purification, bodily waste management, the works. Even though Dean has his amazing recuperative powers he can't risk tracking contagions, toxins or any other dangerous crap back aboard.

Single occupancy works for Dean. The only guests he ever lets set foot inside his Baby are the paying ones whose necks he saves and a bare handful of especially trusted friends. He lives alone and likes it. Casual flirtations like this one with Lisa are all he needs or wants.

His friends are all people who owe him something from the past. Like Ellen Harvelle who pulled a bunch of strings to get him papers in the inconspicuous name of Dean but, unfortunately, not in his real name. It identifies him as a fugitive. Without Ellen's help he and Baby wouldn't BE flying. Losing his surname is something Dean has always regretted.

=O=

Lisa lies beside him on the bed and listens to him talk with interest. She's naturally empathetic. It's what will make her such a great therapist. She has gotten Dean revealing his secret self without him even realizing. But he can argue therapist-patient privilege and he knows it.

"So, uh, what did you do before you got your wings?" she encourages.

"Any damn thing that paid top dollar. Jobs that no one else would take. Couldn't afford to be picky. Hell, sometimes I took jobs that woulda killed any regular guy."

Lisa indulgently ignores what she assumes is blatant showboating. She can't begin to know what an outstanding guy Dean really is. He doesn't tell her about the YED. That side of his life is nobody's business. Intuitively, Lisa senses he's holding something back but lets it go. She laughs prettily.

"I guess you'll be rolling in credits, huh?"

It's a casual enough question and Lisa doesn't mean it acquisitively. She's on her way to her own new remunerative position. Though Dean knows few women would be discouraged by a yes, he's not inclined to string this lady along by lying.

"Nah. I got serious outgoings. My rocketship's not exactly free to run. And I got, uh, habits. A guy's gotta live."

Lisa smiles sympathetically. "Sure. Whatever gets you through, I guess."

Dean grins, lifts himself up on one elbow, bringing his face right up close to Lisa's, and whispers huskily.

"Now, about ancient eastern literature's most famous erotic text. Hmm?"

"I'm guessing you mean the Kamasutra?"

"Uh-huh... On which page is the spanking?"

Taking Lisa by surprise, he rolls her over onto her belly and smacks her naked buttocks until they are rosy as apples. Lisa lets out one loud squeak before stuffing the corner of a pillow in her mouth. She doesn't want to alarm the other passengers and have them running in to catch then in flagrante delicto.

She squirms and tries to turn her rump away from his quick palm, but she's giggling too much despite the sharp sting of each slap. She tries to grab at his hand and he flops on top of her to keep her still, grinning gleefully. His manhood is rubbing between her plump bare cheeks and he's definitely getting hard now.

He wonders how open-minded she is about alternative positions. Is she strictly a missionary girl? His question is answered when Lisa raises her hips and wriggles her butt against his groin. It looks like she's ready to go again.

"Lisa, exactly how many chapters does this book have?"

"Thirty-six. Ten on the art of sex. But don't worry, I've bookmarked my favourite verses."

TBC

* * *

A/N: What started out as a quick hook-up turned into another info exchange. Dean has learned a lot he doesn't even know he's going to need yet. And where's Sam? Back aboard Baby...


	11. The Troublesome Guest

A/N: Now let's see how the subplot with Sam is doing. Is he grateful he's been rescued? Fat chance.

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 11: The Troublesome Guest) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean returns to his Baby several hours after his dinner date ends, satisfied on many levels and humming a happy tune.

"I'm back, Baby," Dean greets his ship.

The contented whirring of the machinery answers him with its welcoming ambient hum. He puts down the doggy-bag, especially prepared for him by Harvelle's chef, and strips naked. Feeling very pleased with himself he pads to the shower, more then ready to take a quick relaxing hot rinse and retire to his own bed.

That's reckoning without his guest. When Dean finishes in the shower and is slipping on his spacerocket PJ pants, he hears the guy once again getting rambunctious in quarantine. Evidently, he has heard that Dean is back and he's bouncing off of the walls in there.

Dean checks the read-out on the Auto-Decontaminator suite door. It looks like the program finished while he was occupied elsewhere. He can probably let the guy out of there. If he wants the pain in the ass up in his face, that is.

Throwing the switch, Dean steps back as the seals break and hydraulic clamps release the door.

'The name is Sam' is standing in the doorway, swaying slightly but trying hard to pull himself up to his full height and seem as imposing as he can manage. Jeez, the guy is humongous. He eyes Dean uncertainly.

"Uh... Hi."

His captor is dressed in only his PJ bottoms, more than he's wearing. Sam suddenly feels self-conscious, hiding his crotch with his big hands. Dean scoffs and leans in to open a small closet, where Sam sees a big pile of disposable coveralls.

"Ah."

He takes one off of the top of the pile. Dean wanders away as Sam steps into the garment. Once outside the suite, Sam swiftly takes in his surroundings.

"OK. So what's happening? Where'd you disappear to for so long? And where's the Grand Duke?"

Dean puts on and buttons up his PJ jacket, not wanting to be the least clothed guy on deck.

"Hey, thought you didn't wanna go home to Grandpa."

"Does he even know I'm here?" asks Sam, suspiciously.

"Knows I'm on your case. Doesn't need details."

Dean turns his back on Sam and selects himself a glass from his drinks cabinet. Sam doesn't take well to being ignored that way.

"Huh! What I thought. So you're gonna keep me here, a freakin' hostage, while you drive up the ransom. That it?"

Dean selects and cracks open a bottle of whiskey.

"On the button. Only you're not a hostage. You're merchandise. So it's not ransom. It's fair payment. Very fair payment, in this case."

A scowling Sam looks anything but on board with the concept. Dean feels righteously indignant.

"Hey, I saved your freakin' butt, buddy. Don't knock it."

Sam shrugs huffily, shifting from foot to foot, and starts listlessly scratching at his arm. Dean doesn't miss the telltale signs. He pauses as he pours himself a nightcap.

"You feel OK? You wanna drink?"

He waves the bottle in Sam's direction, but Sam declines.

"Nah. Nah, I, uh..."

With that he passes out on the floor.

=O=

Dean slaps Sam around the face until he comes to. The guy staggers back to his feet and inhales through his teeth, obviously in some distress. Dean surveys him critically. He seems restless and jumpy. A few minutes out of the Auto-Decontaminator unit and his withdrawal is clearly already kicking in.

He checks the read-out again and sets down his glass to go open his controlled substance cabinet and match up the guy's sine qua non. Over his shoulder, Sam observes the many vials of coloured liquids, powders and crystals, together with syringes and drug paraphernalia, that are stored in the cabinet.

His brow creases judgmentally. "You're a freakin' DRUG DEALER!"

Dean has identified the narcotic that is best fit. Demonblood, a bastard descendant of the Rohypnol family used by sex-slavers to pacify their abductees or to facilitate rolling their clients. Sam may have gotten hooked on it by some bargirl, maybe to rob him or maybe for some more rapey purpose. Either way, it's likely that an uncooperative guy of Sam's size would have been a problem to handle without doping. On this stuff, he would have played ball. Or any other game they wanted.

Dean chuckles as he prepares a syringe with a maintenance dose of the unadulterated drug.

"Man, they had you high on Demonblood. Guess now I know why they were keeping you alive."

Sam has no clue what he's talking about. He retained no memory of anything that happened to him after arriving at the Lunar darkside, or even how long he was there. Demonblood will do that to you. It screws with your head and messes up your brain.

Dean approaches him holding the syringe upright as he expels any air bubbles. Sam takes a step backward and holds up his hands.

"No way are you gonna stick me with that crap."

Dean smirks. "Dude, you COULD try going cold turkey if you wanna, but I sure as hell wouldn't recommend it. Street Demonblood has a 75 percent kill average. You wanna risk that?"

Sam inhales again. "OK, OK. Guess I don't have a whole lotta choice."

He pushes up the right sleeve of his coverall and sits down on a nearby couch. As Dean pushes the long sharp needle into his flesh, he winces. "Ouch!"

Dean removes the hypo and grins. "There. That should keep you half-sane for a while."

Sam frowns, muttering under his breath as he rubs and flexes his arm. "Jerk."

Dean closes the cabinet and spins the dial on its combination lock. No one is getting in there but him. He's very scrupulous about his drug supplies.

"I'm NOT a drug dealer."

He's firm about that. He's not going to let the guy get the wrong idea about him. He may mix with douchebags but Dean is no low-life.

"Sometimes it's the only way to do business with snitches."

Sam sighs and relaxes on his couch, murmuring, "Jeez, that feels good."

He lets his head fall back. Dean studies him for a moment. That long, lean guy still looks too pale and underweight. There's only so much his Auto-Decontaminator can do for its patients. Some need a human touch. The guy could use a good meal inside him. He passes Sam the doggy-bag he brought home with him from the transport.

"Here. Knock yourself out."

Sam opens the container and peers inside. His eyes pop when he sees the selection of choice delicacies it holds and he dives right in. Dean shakes his head. He's sorry to give away his supper but the sooner his guest gets back to health the sooner Dean will be counting his credits. It will be worth the sacrifice.

The same with the Demonblood. It's a mid-price narcotic, not exactly cheap, but he has plenty on hand to wean the guy off of the crap slowly and keep him rosy-cheeked throughout. The only problem will be the side effects. And there will be side effects.

Leaving Sam on his couch munching, Dean goes to bed in his cabin. Which is PRIVATE.

He has some business to do when the convoy makes Eno. That is, as soon as he has gotten paid for his escort duties. He's looking forward to visiting with his favourite rocket engineer and stocking up on supplies for Baby.

Tucking himself between his sheets, he sighs and drifts off dreaming of Miss Lisa Braeden and her beautiful, bendy booty.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Another old acquaintance pops up next chapter. More soon.


	12. Eno Stopover

A/N: So now Dean has a loose Sam running around in the background while he makes a stopover planetside...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 12: Eno Stopover) by frostygossamer

* * *

As usual, Dean wakes early. He rolls over to find Sam has been standing right beside his bed watching him sleep. Not creepy at all. Jeez, did he forget to lock his cabin door? It's a couple days since he let the guy out of quarantine and he's been mooning around ever since, like some unwelcome ghost. And it's getting on Dean's last nerve.

"Whaddya want, man?"

Sam seems to shake himself out of a daze. He can only manage a mumble.

"Uh... I was wondering... What're we, uh, gonna do today?"

Dean swings his feet over the side of the bed and runs his hands through his spiky hair.

"Today I am gonna take Baby down onto Eno. Got some important business to do there. YOU are staying right here on board."

"What's Baby?" Sam scrunches his brow quizzically.

Somehow Sam hasn't caught on to Dean's little nickname for his ship yet. Dean spells it out and can't help sounding like a proud owner.

"My ship. Her callsign is 8A-8Y, yeah? So looks like 'BABY', see. She's my special girl."

Sam laughs. "Used to have a dog I talked about that way."

Dean doesn't appreciate the analogy.

"Dude, my Baby is no freakin' dog. She's a classic rocket-powered speedship, Impala-class, pristine condition. And I mean to keep her that way. Whenever I get to Eno, I take her to see this old buddy of mine, has a real feel for the old machines. Has himself a repair shop in Technopolis. That's where I'm headed today."

Sam nods vaguely. "OK. I guess."

Dean gets off of the bed and trails away for his wake-up shower.

"OK, huh? Dude, you don't get a vote. Cargo, remember, not crew."

He disappears inside the wet room.

=O=

Dean returns from the shower half an hour later looking sharp and dressed for a day on Eno. He's wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans, work clothes, the better to blend with the local populace.

He has started taking the precaution of dressing behind closed doors, because his guest can't seem to keep his eyes away from Dean's body. Every time Dean turns around the guy is eyeing him up with a worryingly hungry look on his face. Demonblood. It's a libido-enhancer. It's not the guy's fault. Dean can see he's embarrassed and trying to keep in under control.

Sam follows Dean onto his bridge like a dog at heel. Perching on his captain's chair, Dean keys in the data required by Eno Control for landing protocol. They will be touching down in a few minutes. Sam watches his every move at the console. It's really annoying.

"You keep your nose away from my instruments and your freakin' hands in your pockets. I navigate this ship, no one else. Capice?"

Sam mutters his agreement. With the formalities completed, Dean leans back only to find the big lummox looming over his shoulder, warm breath riffling through the fine hairs on his neck. Too close.

"Hey! Back up there, dude," he snaps.

Sam jumps back mumbling, "S-sorry. I was only, uh, taking an interest."

"That right? Well, keep your interest to yourself. I don't pitch for the rainbow team, OK?"

Sam looks a little confused. "Uh... I wasn't... I don't..."

Dean scoffs, but it's only to be expected. The effects of the Demonblood have the guy all disoriented about his orientation. He's gotten hooked on what is basically a sex drug, and now he's stuck in a confined space with only one possible source of satisfaction. Looks like Dean is going to have to fend this sucker off until he's either free of his dependency or returned to his grandfather, whichever comes first.

"The sooner you get yourself fit to go on home the better. Meantime, you keep your big paws to yourself. Understand?"

His guest looks offended by his implication.

"Suits me, jerk. Sooner I'm outta here the sooner I'll like it."

Dean feels exactly the same way.

=O=

When Dean walks into his workshop in Technopolis, Eno's city of technology, the middle-aged, tawny-bearded rocket scientist has his head right inside an engine, tinkering around. Dean greets Bobby Singer heartily, slapping him on the back.

"Hi there, Bobby. Working hard, like always?"

Bobby jumps, catching the back of his head on a hydraulic pipe which gives out a long ringing sound. He growls as he straightens up.

"Goddamn idjit!"

Then he gets his eye on the young man who has come to visit.

"Dean! Didn't know you were gonna be in town. Great to see ya. Come to get Baby her regular tune-up, huh?"

"Sure, Bobby."

The two men hug warmly, ending with a manly pat on the back from Bobby. He's an old pal and former comrade-in-arms of Dean's father, a good friend to Dean. Back in John's noncom days, they fought side by side. This old curmudgeon is the only engineer Dean really trusts with his Baby. Visiting with him is the real reason Dean ever takes time out to stop over in Technopolis.

As an old friend of his dad, Bobby is the closest thing to family Dean has left.

=O=

The two men spend a couple hours catching up and going over the issues Dean has recently found with his Baby's handling. A little sluggish during that dogfight maybe?

Bobby is always interested to hear about Dean's adventures, and always ready to help any way he can. Like his father's, Dean's friendship means a lot to the older man. He worries about Dean's dangerous lifestyle. He feels that SOMEONE should.

The engineer likes to tell Dean, "Remember no job's worth your life, boy. Let some other idjit take the kamikaze crap."

Dean always laughs it off, but he secretly appreciates the older man's concern. It's nice to know that someone gives a damn about him. He just thinks it's best if Bobby doesn't let himself get too attached. Dean may break his old heart some day.

Bobby jumps into his eco-electric repair truck to take off for the spacedrome and check out Baby. Dean heads out to go organize the other supplies he needs in the retail section of town. Before they part, he remembers to warn Bobby about Sam.

"By the way, Bobby, got me a shipment aboard. So don't you go leaving the door wide open or the guy could go AWOL. He's gotten himself lost once already. As slippery as an eel, that one."

Bobby laughs and touches his cap in acknowledgement, then he zips away.

TBC

* * *

A/N: What will Bobby think of Prince Sam? More soon.


	13. A Second Opportunity

A/N: Dean has business in Eno's capital city...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 13: A Second Opportunity) by frostygossamer

* * *

Downtown a while later, Dean's about to walk in the premier retail centre of Technopolis, when who should he spot but Miss Lisa Braeden coming out. Arms full of fancy store bags, she's clearly been indulging in a little retail therapy. She almost bumps into him on the moving walkway.

"Hi, uh..."

She seems to think a little too long before adding, "...Dean. Nice to run into you."

She sounds like maybe it's not as nice as Dean would have hoped it should be, given the recent fun times they have shared together. He likes to think he leaves each conquest with an unforgettable impression, even a tinge of regret. To be fair, Dean isn't entirely sure whether he wants to renew their acquaintance either. He tries to maintain a strictly love-'em-and-leave-'em policy. It's a little awkward for both of them.

Still, why turn down a heaven-sent opportunity? He turns on the charm.

"Lisa. How're you doing? Maybe we could go get a drink?"

Lisa hesitates and glances around almost furtively.

"I'd, uh, love to, obviously. But, can we-"

She's interrupted by a large black male hand landing on her shoulder.

"This guy bothering you, Lisa?"

"No, uh, no, Matt. It's OK. Captain Dean here was one of the escort pilots on my flight over from Terra. He wanted to check that I'd arrived safely. Isn't that right, Captain?"

Dean stares the large man square in the eye. The guy has a look of ownership about him, ownership of Lisa. For all Dean knows, he has every right to have it. Maybe Dean should be a gentleman and play along. Before he can answer, Matt introduces himself.

"Matthias Matthews, CEO of Matthias Matthews Medical Technologies. Everyone calls me Dr. Matt."

He goes for a handshake. Dean takes his proffered hand and they shake. Dean thinks Dr. Matt's hand is a little big and sweaty for his liking. He can't help wanting to wipe his own hand on his pants afterward, but he resists the temptation. Dean doesn't like the look of this Matt. He hates guys who have too much money and letters after their name, and use them to pull chicks.

"I was asking Lisa here how she was settling into her new job."

Dean deliberately uses the lady's first name back at him. Matt grins broadly.

"I'd say our Miss Braeden is already helping staff so much more than I'd hoped with her marvellous therapy."

Dean guesses the CEO is already making good use of the marvellous tantric therapy on offer. He recognizes the serene look in the guy's eyes from his own mirror. He decides he had better make a dignified exit. He turns to Lisa and gives her the kind of memorable smile he hopes will some day make her look back and regret her choices.

"Lisa, guess I'll maybe see you around." Meaning, like never.

Lisa smiles weakly and shrugs. She allows Dr. Matt to drag her away, giving Dean a little wave over her shoulder as she disappears into the general throng. Dean watches her go. He isn't sure who lost or who gained most from that exchange.

He spends the rest of the afternoon buying supplies and returns to the spacedrome later that evening. Tonight he will have dinner with Bobby then leave Technopolis in his rearview sensor.

=O=

Bobby is recalibrating something on the control panel when Dean returns to Baby. Tools and parts lie all around him as he kneels on the floor, cranking the clockwork. Through the open panels of the console burnished brass fittings, shiny copper piping, scarlet, peacock and violet crystal cells wink and glimmer as Bobby runs through his list of diagnostics.

An old Country and Western ballad is playing on Baby's sound system and Bobby is humming along to the familiar tune. Dean isn't a fan of this type of music but he would never offend the old guy by switching it out on him. His favourite rock legends can wait.

Dean goes straight to the galley to stow his supplies before joining Bobby on the bridge. The engineer's knees complain as he rises to his feet and dusts himself down.

"Ah, Dean, there you are. Pretty much finished up here. Old girl only needed a couple minor adjustments. You been keeping her in great shape."

He knows the ship means the world to Dean. She's his home, his ride, his girl. He suspects Dean wouldn't have survived so long without Baby to rely on. So he does his best to keep her running tight and trim.

Bobby owes his life to his former comrade-in-arms, Dean's father. John saved him from buying the farm more than once. He likes to think he's repaying that debt by watching out for the guy's only son, since John can't be around to do it himself.

Dean preens a little. "I try, Bobby. She's a thoroughbred. Treat her right and she'll run like a dream."

He glances around the deck, noticing they are alone.

"No hassle from my passenger, I hope? He give you any grief?"

Bobby chuckles. "You mean the big guy with the floppy hair? No trouble. Sitting in your library reading when I came aboard. Nodded at me like I was the help and went right on reading. Not one peep outta him. Don't think he likes my musical taste."

Dean is a little relieved that his guest hasn't tried an awkward move on Bobby. The guy still has some ruggedly good looks about him, in a bristly bearish sort of way, and the horny prince has to be in some discomfort by now. He forgot to warn Bobby about that.

He shrugs. "Typical entitled aristo-brat. Bobby, you'll be staying for dinner as always?"

The engineer stretches and pats his empty belly.

"Boy, I could eat a whole damn butter-fed dekaducken."

Dean makes a face. "Dekaducken? What in Hell's name is a dekaducken?"

The food-techs on Eno are always coming up with some new answer to world hunger. It seems like they have another one on the market every year. Bobby has tried barbecuing most of them at least once.

"Oh, uh, it's some weird-ass kinduva GM bird the science boys have come up with. Got ten drumsticks instead of the regular two. Gonna feed the starving kids of Terra, so they say."

Dean shudders. "Ugh! Nothing in my galley gonna have more than the regular number of legs. I'm fixing chilli and I got beer. That do you?"

Bobby begins to pack up his tools. "Sure. You inviting the passenger? Or does he get personal service in his private stateroom?"

There's a note of sarcasm in that last question.

Dean, who is disappearing toward the galley, shouts back. "He eats with us."

As he passes his library he adds, "That's if he WANTS to eat."

A moment later Sam pokes his nose out of the library and looks around, hopeful.

"Someone mention food?"

=O=

They talk about current news over dinner. Living on Eno, Bobby has his own insight on the worsening political tension between Terra and his home moon.

"Eno's the smart kid in the family. Maybe we got a right to expect Momma to take us seriously."

Soon as the meal is over Bobby excuses himself. He has projects waiting on him back at his workshop. He and Dean exchange a quick private hug and shoulder slap thing before Dean guides him to the exit. The old soldier takes a minute for a private word, almost out of Sam's hearing.

"You know, boy, John Winchester woulda been proud of ya."

"Huh, ya think?"

Dean is doubtful somehow that John would have approved of him making a mercenary living in the gray zone of the law. He glances over his shoulder at Sam and lowers his voice.

"And keep it down, Bobby. You know I can't use the family name. Too easy to trace. Got myself new clean ID."

Bobby nods. "And don't think your daddy wouldn't've understood. He'd be glad you made a life for yourself."

The younger man sighs. "Kind of a half-life, I guess."

"Don't put yourself down, boy. You're doing good, helping people. Look at that grumpy kid in there. You saved him from a fate worse than... whatever. Although you'd figure he'da been more appreciative."

Dean laughs. "His grandpa'll be 'appreciative' when I get him home."

Bobby laughs too. "Yep. Muy apreciativo, I bet."

He rubs his thumb across his finger tips, the gesture symbolizing lots of cash.

"THEN maybe you can afford to hire yourself a second-stringer. Working alone's gonna buy you six feet of real estate one of these days."

As usual when Bobby gets on this tack, Dean stomps all over it.

"Don't need no deadweight, Bobby. Work better alone, always have. And if I buy it, who'd cry at my funeral anyways?"

As soon as he says it, he wishes he had stopped himself from running off at the mouth. He knows what Bobby will answer.

"ME, you idjit!"

Dean pats the older man on the shoulder and chuckles mirthlessly.

"Yeah. Just you, I guess. Sorry about that, Bobby."

He ushers his old friend out of the ship and seals the exit hatch. Then he's left alone with Sam, who had been quiet throughout the whole meal and after, listening but never speaking.

=O=

Dean elects to leave the dishes until tomorrow and finish up a pack of beer instead. He kicks back in his chair, with his feet propped up on the dinner table, and his eyes close. Cracking open one eye after a second, he notices that Sam is leaning forward, forearms on the table, staring at him furtively from behind his bottle.

"Keep your eyes in your head, dude," Dean warns. "I ain't on the menu."

Sam shuffles uncomfortably in his seat and mumbles, "I- I wasn't..."

"Yeah, you were. And I can't blame you. This is some fine man-meat sitting right here."

He can't help bragging a little. He has had a several beers and he's still feeling a teensy bit put out over Lisa Braeden and her super-fast recovery from their encounter. It should by rights have spoiled her for other men. At least for a week or two.

Awkwardly, Sam attempts to cross his legs. Dean does notice, but he feels like indulging his cruel streak. He takes the last bottle from the pack and practically sashays past Sam to his cabin door, walks inside and LOCKS it.

Sam takes a deep shaky breath and lets it out with a loud whew.

"Damn it!" he growls. "That guy is a freakin' tease!"

TBC

* * *

A/N: Side effects could be a big problem. Or maybe an opportunity? More soon.


	14. Problems Surface

A/N: A little passage of time now before we rejoin the good ship Baby...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 14: Problems Surface) by frostygossamer

* * *

Weeks pass without incident. Things are a little slow and Baby is parked in orbit around Terra, waiting for any job to come up, legitimate or illegitimate. On the bridge, cogwheels whiz and instruments click, stutter and peep, ticking over.

Suddenly, a tiny bell on the console rings out in a tinkling soprano. Incoming intercommunicator traffic.

Dean rouses slowly from his doze. He's lying in bed. He has been there three whole days, apart from necessary breaks, and almost the entire time has been semiconscious. He slides out of the bed and wanders onto the bridge to check out the bell's tinny warning.

Plopping himself in his command chair, he pulls a lever that brings the 3-D image of Jo into the room. She suppresses an incorrigible grin.

"Hello, Dean. I wake you up?"

Her eyes have a way of scanning over him against her will. He's standing there in a less than completely clothed condition, glimpses of those sweet abs and a pretty hipbone on display. Dishevelled hardly describes it. His hair is a spiky mess. His neck is covered in bites. His bruised and used body is barely hidden by the silk robe he threw on. Only his face seems to have escaped the attack.

Jo can't help but giggle. "You get in a fight or something? You kinda look like you got hit by a tornado."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You got a message for me, Jo? Or did you call to subject me to your biting ridicule?"

Jo coughs and composes herself.

"Mom contacted me. The transport you escorted to Eno last time is making its return trip in a couple days. Mom's putting in a specific request for you to be assigned. She's got a problem that's a little more than she can handle and I told her you're the guy. You can make this run, right?"

"Sure, Jo. Copy me the rendezvous and I'll meet up with my favourite Convoy Commander as and when."

Jo wires the details straight to Baby's flight planner.

"If that's all, Jo, I'll..." Dean yawns disgustingly, "...catch up with you from the rendezvous point."

Jo takes that as a goodbye. "Yeah sure, Dean. I'll handshake you then. I'm out."

Her image vanishes like smoke.

=O=

Dean gets up with a small 'oof' and returns to his cabin, wondering vaguely what the panic is all about. He sits down on the edge of his big bed for a moment, chin in hand. Then he exhales and drags his fingers through his spiky hair, glancing over his shoulder at the large naked shape spread out on its belly across the mattress. He slips back between the sheets.

"Be making contact with the convoy in around one hour."

Beside him the large shape groans and rolls over on its back, snaking a long arm around Dean's waist under his robe. Dean shoves the arm into a more comfortable position with a huff. He's already half back to sleep but he can live without an elbow in his navel. He puts up with Sam pulling him closer and jamming his stupid mug in the crook of Dean's neck, purring darkly.

"An hour's a long time."

Sam's whisper is husky with sex. He makes yet another attempt to kiss his bed-companion on the face and Dean irritably moves his head out of reach.

"Hey! Quit it, dumb-ass. The agreement was no freakin' kissy-face and you know it."

No kissing. That is the rule. Kissing is for lovers. What they are NOT, and NEVER will be. Got it? This is purely business.

Dean held out against Sam's clumsy advances like some Amish virgin for about a week and a half. Then he realized that he might as well use his body as a pacifier to help Sam with his gradual Demonblood withdrawal, make it bearable for him. It wasn't easy for Dean to watch the guy suffer, and it wasn't like he wouldn't wash clean afterward. Another dirty task to be endured, nothing more.

Sam grunts and moves his mouth further down to suck on Dean's collarbone. Dean goes to his happy place. The same happy place he always used to visit back in the orphanage when bad things would need doing that he couldn't get out of, and when punishment had to be taken stoically.

This isn't such a big chore anyways. He has done nastier things in the name of a job than let a drug-addled hypersexual use his body to calm his cravings. If it helps the guy come off of his Demonblood faster, Dean will be able to get him back to his family in better shape. So probable bonus. All good.

It could have been something worse. There was that maggot processing plant in New Oregon, that lake of contaminated crap, the skip of rotting body parts he had to search one time...

Dean mentally shakes himself and deliberately clears his mind of everything but the money.

=O=

Baby catches up with Captain Harvelle's convoy as they clear Enoan space and lock on to their Terran trajectory. Ellen messages Dean to come aboard as soon as the convoy is deployed. Dean is by now feeling very curious about what it is she wants to talk to him about.

When Dean walks into the Captain's office, she jumps straight up from her desk and closes the door behind him. She ushers him to a seat beside her on the couch, so they can talk without being overheard by anyone outside. All very hush-hush. Ellen's tone is noticeably harassed.

"We have a problem, Dean. One huge damn problem."

"Not sounding good," Dean hazards.

"You could say that. Dean, you remember that guy Mr. Death, the Diplomatic Courier, and the fancy wood box he had in his big old bag?"

"Yeah. Sure, I do."

"Well, down on Eno, after he took possession of the key from Henriksen, he decided to check the box out before the handover ceremony. Cautious, I guess. And thank God he did. Turns out it was empty, Dean, EMPTY."

Dean considers a moment. "Do we even know it isn't MEANT to be empty. The way I heard, it's kind of a symbolic thing anyways."

Ellen dismisses that with a headshake.

"Oh, it isn't INTENDED to be empty, Dean. Death knows that much, though not much more. The thing IN the box is the symbol, not the box. The damn Pompatus, whatever the hell that is, not its carry-case."

"So you're thinking someone finagled the Pompatus out of Death's Gladstone sometime during the trip? One of the crew?"

Ellen doesn't take that suggestion well. Her crew were all personally hand-picked.

"No, no. I'll vouch for every one of my people, Dean."

So the alternative is who? The outriders? Dean is equally adamant.

"And I'll vouch for the escort guys, Ellen. Victor Henriksen may have a stick up his butt but he'd sooner fall on his own sword than steal from a diplomat. Rufus Turner's a straight shooter. I'd trust him with my life. And Gordon Walker? He may be a dick, but I can't see him in the frame for a deal like this. He hasn't got the cojones."

Ellen chuckles dryly and heaves a weary sigh.

"Death was able to postpone the ceremony for a few days. Claimed he'd gotten a bad case of Eno's Revenge. Fortunately for him, the powers that be were cool with a short delay. But he needs the damn thing back in his hands stat."

There is only one other group left for them to investigate. Dean says it first.

"Then I guess we gotta check out the passengers?"

Ellen nods. "Personally I never liked the looks of that Miss Masters, a shady lady of business if I ever saw one. What do you think?"

"Kinda got that vibe from her too. There's more to that one than meets the eye."

It's not only Lisa's doubts about Masters' orientation that trouble him. Heck, if it were only that he's always up for a challenge and, the way he looks, he's probably in with a chance with almost any woman. But there is something about that particular lady that he instantly disliked. Rare for Dean with an attractive female.

Ellen continues. "She's back aboard right now. What if I offer her a tour of the flight deck? Maybe you can do a recon of her quarters and see what shows up?"

Dean is up for it. Captain Harvelle has always been a prompt payer, and preventing a diplomatic scandal has got to be worth a bundle.

"Will do, Captain."

TBC

* * *

A/N: So Dean's off to rummage in Meg's panty drawer. What will he find? More shortly.


	15. Ruby in Red

A/N: Thanks everyone who reviewed so far. Sorry I'm a bit late today but here's the next instalment. Dean is checking out Meg Masters' sleeping quarters aboard the transport ship, looking for any incriminating evidence to link her to the theft of the Pompatus Box. Shush...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 15: Ruby in Red) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean quietly opens the stateroom door with the steward's passkey. He has undertaken to discreetly turn the place over while Captain Harvelle keeps the occupant busy elsewhere, taking tea with her on the transport's flight deck. He expects to have maybe a half hour to see what exactly he can find out about the mysterious Miss Meg Masters, particularly anything incriminating.

He makes a careful check of the closet, the night table and the dresser. On the night table is a large lead-crystal scent bottle half full fancy French parfum. In place of the usual family portrait there's a pretty fine etching of an early-style Colt revolver in a gilt frame. Dean admires the lady's taste in art. There is also a very rare hardcover anthology of Edgar Allan Poe short stories, the story of 'Hans Pfaall' marked with a monogrammed silver bookmark. One for the bookworms.

There's nothing else noteworthy there. But, after a thorough search of Miss Masters' cabin trunk, pausing only to admire her collection of satin and lace under-things, he finds a secret compartment in the base containing a black diamante eyepatch. Maybe a souvenir from some fancy-ass masquerade ball? Or maybe a little piratical memento? Dean can only guess.

Checking under one downy pillow on the bed, his hand closes on a silver-bladed dagger inscribed 'to M from B'. Very curious. Suspicious but circumstantial. He leaves it there and he's checking under the other pillows when his acute hearing picks up a noise behind him.

He swings around to find the fair Miss Ruby de'Mon, Miss Masters' companion, standing there, a larger sharper knife glinting in her hand. Something tells Dean that this lady is no mere PA.

"What the hell are you doing with Miss Masters' bed?" Ruby demands, angrily.

Dean has been caught red-handed. His ambushed mind comes up with only one suggestion.

"Uh... Housekeeping?"

Lame, he knows. Ruby growls and lunges at him with her blade. She misses and rips a tear in the bedspread. Dean grabs her wrist and twirls her around, pulling his Bowie from his belt as he tries to knock her knife out of her hand against the headboard. She twists nimbly out of his grasp, high-kicking at his head, ripping a lucky slash across his face with her spike heel.

There's a flash of scarlet as her skirt rides up to reveal tiny red thong panties. Not so demure after all. Dean's hand goes straight to his cheek as she dances away. Then they are facing-off like a couple rival big cats ready to pounce. Dean hurls himself on the slender female and tries to ram her face into the bulkhead.

Thinking fast, Ruby gets a knee between his legs and pulls him off balance. They both fall back on the bed sprawling. Ruby scrambles to get back on her feet and Dean comes up wrapping his arm around her breasts from behind, pressing his knife blade tight to her throat.

He feels her nervous swallow against his weapon. As his own blood drips down his chin onto her shoulder, he chuckles.

"Kinda excessive for a Personal Assistant, huh? You sure you read the job description right?"

Ruby curses, attempting to elbow him in the side and ineffectually kicking back at his shins with her sharp heels.

"Miss Masters guessed she was gonna need a bodyguard on this trip. Looks like she wasn't wrong."

So Miss de'Mon (Lady's Companion), was really Ruby de'Mon (Personal Security). Dean pushes her down on the bed, using his weight to keep her restrained. He tries not to think about the hot swell of her bosom under him.

"And why's that? What's she getting herself into that's so damn dangerous she needs a hired blade?"

Ruby mentally zip-locks her lips. He shakes her, sliding the knife tight against the pale skin of her neck. He can feel her heartbeat rat-a-tat fast against his palm where it's pressed to the plump curve of her breast.

"You gonna tell me what you know? What Masters is into? Or am I gonna hand you over to Terran Security when we make Earthside? How does a conspiracy rap sound to you?"

Ruby considers a second before sighing and relaxing against him, indicating she's ready to cooperate. He cautiously loosens his grip a little. She snickers.

"We're talking about the Pompatus Box, right? I can tell you how Meg got it off of the ship."

Dean tucks his Bowie back in his belt. Now he can use two hands to hold her pinned. He's still on alert but ready to listen.

"OK. Talk."

"Meg had a replica box made. Paid th guy who built the original to build her a duplicate, identical right down to the last little detail. He died of semi-natural causes pretty soon afterward. They switched the thing out on Terra, right after the President handed it over. Before Death even took custody of it. Before it even made its way into his big black bag. Some serious blackmail involved back along the line, that's as much as I heard."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "So the Pompatus Box WE saw wasn't even the real deal? The freakin' Pompatus, whatever the hell that is, was never even in there? That right?"

Ruby concurs. "No. Never was. But Meg still had to get the real box to her contact. So it came aboard in her hand luggage. When that 'Selenite' pirate showed up, she put it out a waste chute and he snatched it up from space. The whole goddamn attack was a ruse to get close enough for the pick-up."

That sounds about right. Dean lets Ruby sit up. She tries to rub the circulation back into her wrists. Hitching up her skirt, she reties the side-string of her panties, which the high-kicking and bed-grappling has pulled loose. Dean is incidentally treated to a glimpse that confirms her authenticity as a blonde, but his big brain is on business. His little brain can only pout at being ignored.

He's reminded that he did feel something was off during the dogfight incident.

"So that's why the so-called pirate hung for a beat under the transport?!"

"You got it, clever boy. I, uh, I believe one time Meg called the guy Benny."

Benny? That makes sense. The 'to M from B' on the dagger could be 'to Meg from Benny'. But Benny sounds way too much like a regular name for an alleged alien.

"Benny, huh? Yeah, sure. Sounds like a 24-carat Man in the Moon."

He guesses the Selenite theory has pretty much bombed.

Ruby shrugs. "She let it drop he has a hangout on Emo."

Emo and its liberal open-door policy. Trust the Emoans to harbour other people's criminals and troublemakers, no questions asked. Dean shudders. This whole plot is pretty screwy to him. Miss Meg Masters, wealthy businesswoman, in bed, literally or not, with some imaginary Lunan - or should that be Loony Toons - brigand? Planning to steal some stupid-ass diplomatic freebie from under the nose of the official assigned to deliver it? But Dean can't see why in heaven she would want to do anything so off the wall.

"Seems like a lot of trouble to go to when they could simply substitute another gift. But I'm sure as hell not gonna let them get away with whatever this is. Not on my watch."

Sounds like an admirable sentiment, but Ruby is wise to his real motivation.

"And not when someone's ready to pay you big bucks to straighten it out for them, huh?"

"Hell no. Only wish I knew why this is such a big freakin' deal."

Ruby chuckles. She has her own opinion and she lays it out.

"Love. That's what this is about. L. O. V. E. I reckon Meg's fallen head over heels for this Pirate Benny and he's got her doing loop-de-loops for him. Meg's a lonely, brittle, single lady and what's more romantic than a genuine pirate king to soften an old dragon's dried-up little heart, huh?"

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, sure. Like hard-nosed Miss Masters is gonna lose her head over some guy with an eyepatch, a pegleg and a freakin' parrot."

But then there WAS that sparkly eyepatch in her trunk. Huh! So much for Miss Lisa Braeden's theory about Ruby being Meg's main squeeze.

Ruby starts to giggle wickedly. "Don't underestimate the power of love, Captain Dean. It's everyone's biggest weakness."

Dean was considering NOT punching her out, once he had gotten what info she had to give, but that little comment changes his mind. He leaves her there, splayed legs akimbo unconscious on the comforter. Before he slips out the door, he feels the need to respond.

"Not everyone's, honey. Not mine."

TBC

* * *

A/N: Well, Dean found something, but what does it say? Nothing much. And is Ruby right about love? More soon.


	16. An Inspector Calls

A/N: This chapter there's a little cameo from a well-known character entity. ;)

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 16: An Inspector Calls) by frostygossamer

* * *

Once out of Meg's stateroom, Dean hotfoots it to Captain Harvelle. Ellen has left Miss Masters flirting with her XO, a clean-cut young officer who rocks his uniform like a pro, and she is anxiously awaiting Dean's return in her office. She looks up expectantly as he hurriedly enters the room.

"I got something," Dean begins.

He quickly has her up to speed. She immediately contacts Eno Civil Security. A few minutes later, the weary image of a hollow-cheeked and graying plain-clothes security liaison appears on her intercommunicator. Ellen has had dealings with this guy before. She brings him up to date.

"So it looks like Miss Meg Masters of Masters Inc. was responsible for the actual theft of the missing item, Inspector Munch. And she seems to have been conspiring with a gang of space pirates."

The stony-faced inspector isn't in the mood for a leg-pull.

"Pirates?" He chuckles dryly. "Oh yeah. That'd be those mythical Selenite pirates I've heard all the rumours about."

Dean butts in. "Dude, we're talking an actual flesh-and-blood pirate here. Get your head out of your ass."

Although a hard-boiled veteran, Munch doesn't take too kindly to that sort of language. His attitude stiffens. Ellen nudges Dean out of the spotlight and continues.

"We can only assume that this VERY REAL pirate intends to demand a ransom or maybe protection money from the company. Inspector, it's important that you act without delay."

He's still reluctant to play along with their scenario. After a long career he knows how many beans make five.

"Masters is a very influential woman, Captain. It'd be hard to make ANYONE believe she'd be involved in something like this."

Clearly that includes him, but Ellen persists. She's not above using her feminine charms to get her point across. She treats him to a sexy smile and a girlish laugh.

"I can't believe it either, John, but, if you don't act on this immediately, we may never find out."

Munch is suckered in. He blows out a sigh and nods tiredly.

"OK, I guess I could arrange for de'Mon to be discreetly taken into custody and debriefed, if you can keep her locked down until your vessel makes landfall."

"Certainly. And Miss Masters?"

"de'Mon isn't exactly a reliable informant, Ellen. Without corroborating evidence, there's not much we can do. Masters' hotshot lawyers would have her back on the street within the hour and a wrongful arrest suit headed our way."

That is no answer as far as Dean sees it.

"So what? You and your boys are just gonna let her walk away free?"

"The best we can do is observe her activities. She won't be making a move that we don't know about."

Dean suspects they are being fobbed off. As Dean quietly fumes, Ellen winds up the conversation. When the inspector's lugubrious face disappears, she and Dean look at each other.

"Then I guess it's down to us again," comments Dean.

"I guess it's down to you, Dean," corrects Ellen.

She lays aside formalities and pats her friend on the shoulder.

"I have every faith in you, Dean, you know that? I'm counting on you to sort out this mess. You've never let me down yet."

A few years ago Captain Harvelle hired a stranger named Dean to do a little job for her. She had learned that her only daughter Jo was living with a buttwipe abuser of a boyfriend in the Lunar work colony. She wanted her back. Unharmed. She counted on him then and he didn't let her down.

Dean snatched Jo back. Saved her life, as it turned out. In gratitude, Ellen called in lots of favours and got his name added to the escort roster. Her help came at the right time, because it looked like he was about to lose his license to fly without a legitimate, tax-paying employ. He owed her.

"Count on me, Ellen."

He returns to Baby to plan his next mission. Locate Pirate Benny on Emo. Bring the Pompatus home.

=O=

As soon as he gets back to his ship, Dean is cornered by a big buck-naked Sam. Standing too close as always, he clearly has problems keeping his hands to himself. After waking up in bed alone, he was worried sick about Dean's whereabouts. The terse sound bite left for him about a meeting with Captain Harvelle told him next to nothing. He's desperate to know why Dean was called away to meet with the captain.

Sam hops from foot to foot, agitated, and exasperatedly flicks his long hair back off of his face. He's a typical junkie, and not for Demonblood. He's jonesing for Dean.

"Where the hell have you been all this time? What did the Convoy Commander want with you? Was it about my grandfather? You gonna hand me over to her? She gonna take me home?"

Dean tsks and pushes past him, stumbling slightly. He's miffy that the guy thinks he has some right to get a blow by blow account of his movements. Who does the bare-assed fool think he is?

"Nothing to do with you, dude. You're not as goddamn important as you think you are."

"So the Grand Duke hasn't asked for me back yet?"

Dean gives him a cold glare and walks over to get himself a drink.

"The Grand freakin' Duke will get you back when I'M good and ready."

"Then what was it all about?"

Dean sighs deeply, pours himself a whiskey, throws it down his neck, pours himself another. It's obvious he may as well bring Sam up to speed. The guy sounds like he's not going to let it alone until he does.

He has told him already about the diplomatic courier and his big black portmanteau, and the fancy wood box inside it that Death wouldn't even open. But he doesn't know how much the guy remembers, given what Sam's mouth and fingers were doing to HIM while he was going over it.

"You remember what I said about Death and his gift box?"

That perks up Sam's interest. "Sure. The Pompatus Box. You told me."

Dean is a little taken aback that Sam knows what he's talking about. The guy must be one amazing multitasker.

"Turns out it was switched out someplace, and now I gotta go to Emo, bring it back."

Dean flops in his armchair, wincing a little, and carefully settles into its cushions. Sam can see him a lot better by the light of the floor lamp beside his chair. And he doesn't look his best.

"What's wrong with your face?" he demands.

"It's nothing. Seems Miss de'Mon is pretty nifty with the silverware."

"Lemme look."

Sam kneels beside his chair and studies the ragged cut in Dean's smooth cheek.

He inhales through his teeth. "THAT is gonna need stitches."

"Not as much as this would."

Dean peels off his jacket to reveal a small, bloody tear in his shirt. There's a slim but deep gash in his flesh right below the underarm. Ruby seems to have got in a lucky jab. Sam wants to take care of it but Dean bats away his twitchy fingers.

"Dean, You gotta let me help you fix that up. It's bad."

But Dean shakes his head. "No need. My good buddy'll take care of it."

Dean retrieves his black velvet bag of gear and a vial of YED from its place in the side table. Sam watches him with a concerned frown on his face as he goes through his daily routine, preparing himself his regular dose of YED. Dean has never done this right in front of Sam before. Sam doesn't like the look of it and says so.

"I know what that crap is. It's what they call 'the Yellow-eyed Demon'. Xan, uh, xantho-"

"Xanth-ophthalmo-daimonide," supplies Dean.

"Yeah. That's the sucker. It's deadly."

"Only if you don't use it the right way."

People love to lecture Dean about the perils of drug abuse. A little pointless in his case. He's not an abuser. He's a casualty. To Sam his comment seems flippant.

"It's poison and if you're a user you're a dumb-ass. It'll kill you, sooner or later."

Dean corrects him. "Not the YED that'll kill me. Missing my daily fix, sure."

He grinds his teeth as he plunges the needle into his arm. Sam flinches. Tiredly, Dean explains himself.

"Had the decision made for me a LONG time ago. There's no coming off of THIS baby."

Sam still can't help being a little snarky at Dean's casual attitude.

"There's a maintenance drug, synth-YED. You ever try that?"

Dean has to laugh. "Man, I wrote the book on that crap. You want to know how a zombie feels? Try synth-YED. I grew up in a drab orphan institution where they fed it to me every damn month. It's legal and it lasts way longer, but it dulls your senses and makes you feel like you're barely half-alive. I prefer to take my chances with the real deal."

Sam does get it. What Dean says about growing up in an institution and feeling half-alive reminds him of the life he led back on Terra. He was expected to be some performing bear for the paparazzi. He could never have a life of his own like a regular person, because he was born the heir to the Grand Duchy of Campobello. All he has ever wanted is his freedom.

As he watches, Dean relaxes and lets the YED flow through his veins. And with it flows a strange rosy glow of health, contrary to the drugged out look Sam expected. The angry inflammation already glowing around the nasty cut on Dean's cheek subsides and the skin visibly knits over the gash. At the same time the wound under his arm stops bleeding.

YED may be crap but it's miraculous crap.

After a minute, Dean absently scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, smearing a little dried blood. But the slash Ruby cut has disappeared. He opens his shirt and watches as the injury in his side heals and all pain fades.

Laughing dryly, Dean drains his glass and slams it down on the table.

"And you drink too much," comments Sam.

TBC

* * *

A/N: So Dean has a new mission and Sam is starting to care about him a little. Off to Emo. More soon.

Disclaimer: I do not own the character John Munch. He remains the property of his copyright owners.


	17. Emo Rendezvous

A/N: Funny you should mention jeans samisnotevil. :) We think alike o_O ;) Now Dean begins his mission...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 17: Emo Rendezvous) by frostygossamer

* * *

They are spiralling down to land on Emo and Dean is getting set for his mission, checking and loading his firearms, his carefully chosen outfit laid out ready. Sam is hanging around, getting in his way.

Sam is wearing a slightly too tight, white, sleeveless undershirt and low-rider jeans. He has been back in regular clothes for a couple weeks. Walking around the ship nude became more practical for both of them after Dean gave him the go-ahead to satisfy his needs with the flier's body. But Dean soon tired of Sam damaging his clothes by trying to rip them off still buttoned. Fortunately, Sam has gotten beyond the wolfish stage and is finally starting to kick the Demonblood. It's a welcome reprieve for Dean and his wardrobe.

After Dean has snarled at him for the fifth time, Sam tries to be more helpful by handing Dean his clothes as he dresses.

Today's outfit is a sand-coloured Nehru jacket, with extra inside pockets for weapons, over a T-shirt, white cargo shorts and sandals. Not really Dean's style. He's more comfortable in denim and leather and a long way from pastels. But he's hoping to pass for a regular Emoan citizen, and those people love their gender-neutral and happening fashions. Dean grumbles as he pulls on his suspiciously floral shirt.

"Freakin' Emo. Freakin' hate that oversize cotton ball."

Sam returns to sitting in the Captain's chair, idly spinning around in it every now and again. He gives his opinion.

"Dude, there's nothing wrong with Emo. Been there plenty times with the GD. Great reception every time. Emoans really go for all that courtly hokum."

"I bet," complains Dean.

He's strapping on his grenade belt. Emo has never been a favourite destination for him. The Emoan flower-child mentality doesn't sit well with a guy brought up in a grim orphanage. He finds their geniality deeply suspect.

"You sure you're up to this, Dean?"

Sam is mindful of Dean's recent injury. The YED may have healed him but Sam is sure something like that has to leave at least mental trauma behind. He can't help feeling a little concerned about his host's welfare. Sam has always been a caring sort of guy.

Dean scoffs. "Sure, I'm up to this. Dude, THIS is what I do."

Sam doesn't doubt that Dean is physically capable of completing the mission he's about to embark on, but he itches to help out in some way.

"Maybe I should come too? Extra pair of hands? You and me, we'd make an awesome team."

Dean snorts in disgust. "Team? Dude, I work alone. End of discussion. You're strictly inventory. OK? Don't need your dead-weight on my ass."

When all he gets is a pout from Sam he jabs his finger at him. "You stay put. Hear me?"

He's sure an extra pair of hands getting in the way is likely to get a guy dead. No, Dean has always been a one-man army, YED-fuelled and totally up for the game. He isn't going to let his paycheck do something stupid and wind up killed or wounded before he has a chance to cash him in.

Sam makes a sulky face. "So, uh, what's the plan? IF you wanna let inventory hear about that kinda thing."

Dean shoots him a sharp look. "The plan - not that it's any of your business - is to locate this Benny 'King of the Pirates' assclown, if he even exists, and force him to hand over the freakin' Pompatus Box. Then I return it to the diplomatic mailman before someone catches on and starts a political crapstorm."

"And then you get paid," adds Sam.

Dean's face lights up in a cheesy grin. "Mucho dinero, dude. Mucho."

Sam is starting to get his host's motivation. It's ALL about the money, nothing else.

"OK, so how you gonna trace this Pirate Benny character? Emo is a big place and, frankly, kinda disorganized."

"Got my contacts."

That is the beauty of money. With enough cash, Dean never fails to find SOMEONE who will give him what he needs. He stows his handguns and favourite knives inside his jacket and finishes the final setup at Baby's control console before marching to the exit.

"Back soon, Baby," he calls over his shoulder.

That causes Sam to it's not meant for him, is it? It occurs to Sam that it would be cool if it was. Dean is about to slip out when Sam catches up and grabs his arm, stopping him in the exit way. For some reason he needs to let Dean know he's not approving this.

"You even know what the hell is in that box you're gonna risk your life for?"

"Zero clue."

"Then why's it so damned important? They can get the guy a bunch of freakin' roses."

Dean shrugs. "Again zero clue. But, hey, they wanna pay me to recover it for them so... Yeah."

Sam can't help feeling a little exasperated at Dean's apparent recklessness. Dean, for his part, isn't about to start questioning the good sense of his line of work at this stage.

"So you're not even a tiny bit curious?" asks Sam.

Dean was expecting Sam to stop acting clingy when his dependency on Demonblood came to an end. But then he never has been much of a judge of human nature. He pulls his arm out of Sam's grasp and yanks the door lever down. The hatch opens with a swoosh and he steps outside.

"Sam, this is my JOB. I don't get curious. I get paid. THAT's the bottom line. I NEVER question a client. I NEVER interfere with a package. And, anyways, it's not your business."

Before Sam can think of a comeback, Dean's gone.

=O=

Dean enters a old-style cabaret bar in central Daffodil, the nearest thing Emo has to a capital. A young guy and girl duo are warbling the latest popular ballad, a mawkish number with an irritatingly haunting refrain that will no doubt be bothering him for days.

Sitting down at a vacant table, he orders a cheeseburger and a beer for two credits, plus a bunch of sides. Some fancy-schmancy salad garnish is responsible for the extra half credit on the price. When it arrives, Dean pulls the weird vegetation out of his burger and tucks in.

Half way through his meal, a painfully thin, jug-eared character approaches and stands grinning by his table waiting to be acknowledged. Dean glances up and snorts. The guy still looks like the wasted druggie he was when they met, even after all this time clean. He greets the newcomer tersely.

"Hi, Garth."

Garth responds with a nervous grin and takes that as an invitation to sit down at the table, across from Dean.

"Hi there, Captain Dean. Been a while, huh?"

Dean has had dealings with this guy often. Garth Fitzgerald may come off like he's the authority on the Emo underworld without good cause, but he does come up with the goods from time to time. When all he gets from Dean is a chin jerk of acknowledgement, Garth suggests a topic of mutual interest.

"So, uh, I hear you're looking for the scoop on a certain pirate? Name of, uh, Benny?"

"Yep."

Dean waves a hand to indicate that Garth, who is eyeing his plate, is free to take a fry or two. Garth happily helps himself to a handful, rejoicing gleefully like a little kid, and speaks between mouthfuls.

"Benny Lafitte. Believe I know the coordinates of the rock he's hiding under."

"Awesome."

This pirate could turn out to be real after all. There follows a long pause during which Garth continues to chuckle, all proud of himself, and finishes Dean's French fries. Dean stares at him in disbelief.

"And..." he prompts.

Garth snaps out of his self-congratulation.

"Four blocks west of here there's this monkey track. That's where you'll find him."

Dean waits for further explanation, which doesn't come.

"Monkey track? The freak is a monkey track?"

Garth shakes his head like he's dealing with an idiot, not an attitude Dean appreciates.

"A track, yeah? With monkeys, yeah?" like it should be obvious.

Dean snorts in response and stands up to go find the place. He drops a bunch of bills on the table. Garth pockets them and dives on the remains of Dean's burger as Dean walks out.

He ordered large deliberately. The skinny kid always looks to him like he could use a good meal.

TBC

* * *

A/N: So what is this place Garth has directed Dean to and what will he find there? More soon.


	18. Monkey Business

A/N: Dean is down on Emo following Garth's tip, about the whereabouts of 'Benny', to the so-called 'monkey track'...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 18: Monkey Business) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean makes his way quickly through the streets of Daffodil until he spots the sign for the track dead ahead. It's a big indoor race facility where he discovers they are using capuchin monkeys as jockeys on robotic ponies. Ah, now it makes sense.

The capuchins are wearing colourful jockey silks and tiny tutus. Makes less sense.

"Only on Emo," he murmurs.

He makes a random bet at the on-track betting window, casually mentioning that he has a tip from a certain Benny Lafitte. The clerk only stares back blankly, so Dean takes a seat in the spectators' stand. The race starts in a couple minutes and is over in seconds. Surprisingly, Dean has the winner on his ticket: 'Kinky Cong'.

He figures he may as well collect his winnings. It may be the only luck he has today. So he makes his way back to the booth. But, as he pushes through the crowd of punters, he finds himself bracketed by a couple very mean-looking heavies. They are dressed like rough-and-ready space-crew. Seems he may have struck pay dirt.

Somehow his hands have gotten zip-tied behind his back. With a goon's hand around each of his elbows, he's frogmarched protesting to the back of the property. Dean could live without the zip ties. He's come there of his own accord. They don't need to treat him like an undesirable.

"Hey, hey. No need for the strong-arm stuff, guys. Wanna talk to Benny, is all."

He hopes it is Benny they are taking him to see and it isn't simply that the owner of the track has taken exception to paying him his winnings. Perhaps they mean to roll his ass and throw him out on his head in some scuzzy back alley.

"You ARE taking me to Benny, right?"

They heavies aren't listening anyways. He's dragged up a dimly-lit corridor and flung unceremoniously into a pitch-black back room. Without his hands to steady him, he lands on his knees cursing under his breath. His eyes strain to pick out any detail of his surroundings.

After a few seconds, someone throws a light switch and Dean blinks until he can see again.

A man in a dark pea coat and Breton cap enters the room. He's a sturdy guy with a neatly trimmed beard and a nasty smile playing on his lips.

"So you're the guy who's looking for Benny the Buccaneer?"

Dean sneers at the 50-cent word 'buccaneer'. "That your stage name?"

The guy chuckles. "'Nom de guerre' maybe."

Again with the pretentiousness. Dean guesses this guy as been living on Emo for too long.

"Yeah. I got a message for Benny Lafitte from his honey Miss Meg Masters."

The guy smoothes his bristly chin, interested but still suspicious.

"And what would this message be from my, uh, honey?"

Dean is sure now that he's dealing with the real McCoy.

"Ah, so you're Benny, huh? You have the Pompatus Box? Because she wants it back. They're on to her little plot already and she needs to hide it someplace else."

Benny laughs like Dean said something very funny.

"Masters can want what the hell she pleases. The plan goes ahead, and she can go down for all I care. Fact is, I was thinking of arranging a little accident for her, by and by. She's a loose end I can live without."

Dean is completely thrown off. Looks like Ruby had it totally wrong about Meg and Benny being an item. And it also looks like Meg isn't as in charge of things as he imagined. The plan is Benny's. That puts a different spin on it. Benny notices Dean's confusion and it confirms his guess that Dean wasn't sent by Meg.

He sneers. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, do you?"

Dean is beginning to wonder about that himself. If he had known he was walking into the lion's den he might have taken more precautions. Benny paces slowly around the kneeling Dean and heaves a dramatic sigh.

"You even know who I am?"

Dean growls. "You're a robbing son of a bitch who hijacked some random presidential bling so he can demand a freakin' ransom, and make himself mega-credits out of some poor sap's embarrassing fail. Guess you don't give a rat's ass about the clusterfuck you're causing."

Benny guffaws. "Man, have you got it all ass first."

He draws up a small stool and carefully perches his beefy frame on it, getting himself comfortable before continuing. Dean takes a moment to twist ineffectually at the ties binding his wrists behind him. They are tight and dig into his flesh.

"You heard the word Selenite before?" Benny asks.

Dean snorts. "Oh yeah sure. You're gonna tell me that you and your buddies here are indigenous Lunans, huh? Dude, it's been proven that's a crock. Luna was a dead world before we worked her over."

His captor leans back on his stool, convulses with silent laughter then patiently explains.

"I was Terra-born. Shipped out to Luna as a convict terraformer. You might say I worked my way back to righteousness. Started seeing something in humanity, downtrodden Lunan humanity. Luna, Queen of the Night, she's my homeland now. Proud to call myself a Lunan. But the way the Terran regime treats its only natural moon is an outrage, sickening. Some of us Lunans have had enough. Some of us have gotten angry. A few of us have made up our minds to do something about it. We formed ourselves a Revolutionary Army."

Dean has heard that particular circumlocution before. Talk of revolution was big in his dad's time.

"Revolutionary Army? You saying you're freakin' terrorists?"

"You could call us that. We like to call ourselves Selenitist freedom fighters."

Dean has heard that one too. Anarchists! He takes a moment to absorb the realization. Anarchists killed his dad. Anarchists turned his life to crap. Things are starting to look real bad.

"So the piracy, the harassment, the plot to steal the President's gift, that's all about... what?"

"All about turning up the political tension between Terra and Eno. So far Eno has been Terra's only real threat. The planet of technology, they got everything it takes to stockpile WMDs and challenge Terra's hold over the system. Terra needs to keep them sweet and she's been pouring every goddamn grant and kickback into Eno's coffers. They wanna broker a lasting peace between the two of them. Luna gets nada. Fact is, we're paying for it all."

Even Dean can see how that could make anyone a little pissed, but aren't they using the wrong tactics? Isn't this kind of thing what politicians and diplomats are paid for? Hell, what's so bad about firing up a petition?

"And you think nipping at Terra's heels is gonna make them pay you more attention. That it? Fat chance."

Benny snickers. "Buddy, this is a bigger game than that. They're crap-scared of a 'War on Terra'. We're gonna bring it to them."

Dean swallows.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh dear! Dean seems to have unearthed a terrorist plot. Now what's going to happen to him? More soon.


	19. Over and Out

A/N: May as well post the second half of this scene straight away. Dean is forced to kneel there, hands bound, while Benny sits on a stool and acquaints him with his plans to start a war...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 19: Over and Out) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean can't believe what he's hearing. They want to start an intrasystem WAR?

"So what? You're gonna lurk on Emo like you're scared of the sunlight? And you're gonna watch while Terra and Eno duke it out to the death, then jump out of the shadows and claim the victory?"

"Something like that. We're here on Emo because our people on Luna are routinely rounded up and flung in jail or exiled to the darkside, people like my main man Boris. But we're good here. Emoan cops are a freakin' joke."

Dean's mouth drops open. The guy is deadly serious. He has walked into a nest of honest-to-god insurgents. Without backup.  
"And Meg knew about all this," he murmurs.

He wishes for all he's worth that he hadn't accepted Ruby's version of Meg's intentions. His captor grins smugly, rows of big sharp teeth making him look like the monster he is.

"We promised Masters Inc. exclusive trade deals with Luna. Masters swallowed it hook, line and sinker. But, hmm, I don't think, somehow, we'll be coming through with the goods when our day dawns at last."

Benny's eyes have gone wide. He shoots up, the stool falling over unnoticed and glares into some imagined future.

"When Terra goes down and Luna is in the ascendant, that'll be our moment to step into the spotlight. I'm gonna proclaim myself President of the whole damn system. President Lafitte. No, strike that. Emperor Benny the Great!"

The fire in Benny's eyes when he says those words makes Dean's heart sink. This guy is a megalomaniac in the making and he means to crown himself the boss of every-damn-thing. Yikes!

"You warmongering douchebag! You're gonna sacrifice the people of two worlds to make yourself a freakin' pissant God!"

Benny glowers down at him like Zeus from Olympus, balls his fist threateningly and snarls.

"You have the nerve to think a worm like you can stop me?"

He lands a punch square on Dean's jaw - Crunch! - knocking him flat on the floor.

Dean pulls himself off of the ground and stares up defiantly, which makes Benny want to punch him again, and he does. The sound of something kicking off means his two crewmen waiting outside run in and they all three lay into Dean, beating on him until he's bruised, broken and bloody.

If Dean has any masochistic tendencies this would be their moment. Unfortunately nothing pleasurable presents itself to his psyche. Even his self-blame manages to stay out of the ring.

When he can't keep himself up on his knees anymore, the crewmen grab him by the shoulders. They haul him into the room where the capuchins are kept in big cages, each secured by a leather collar and a chain. They shove Dean in an empty cage and fasten a collar around his neck too.

He is so screwed!

The surrounding capuchins go apewire, jumping up and down, vocalizing and frantically waving their skinny, almost human hands. Benny watches as his two spacedogs strip Dean of every stitch and lock the cage firmly with a heavy-duty padlock. They don't even let him keep the dignity of his drawers.

"So I guess... you're not gonna tell me... what was in the box?"

Dean sarcastic comment is slurred, his bloody lips already starting to swell up.

Benny laughs. "Gave the box to one of my gofers Gordon Walker to destroy unopened. Why should I give a crap what was in it?"

"Walker," hisses Dean. "That freakin' asshat."

So Dean's fellow flier Walker has been working for these guys all along? That explains the convenient glancing shot that stopped him chasing down the bogey during their engagement. He was running interference while Pirate Benny did what he needed to do.

Like Dean, Walker will happily do most anything for money. Unlike Dean, he has no scruples about who he does it for. Dean has never trusted the guy, but he has apparently seriously underestimated Walker's grade of cojones. Benny rubs his bruised knuckles.

"We'll continue our little discussion tomorrow, friend."

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and abandons Dean to the monkey-funky semi-darkness. Battered and disoriented, Dean can't stop his eyes from closing.

He passes out.

=O=

It's some unknown time later when Dean finally comes around. He's lying exactly where he fell.

He cracks open one swollen eye to find the female capuchin in the cage next to his peering down at him. She's cooing, a concerned look on her tiny simian features, her eyebrows twitching, her long thin fingers reaching through the bars to gently touch his arm. Ladies can't resist this guy.

"Hey there, Kinky Cong," he breathes.

When he tries to move, pain shoots through his body. He grabs his chest. It hurts like a mother. Dragging himself up to lean against the back wall of his cage, he fingers his collar. It chafes his skin but he can't coordinate his fingers enough to remove it. He checks himself over. He's buck-naked and filthy. He looks and feels like crap. His clothes are gone, and with them all his weapons AND the hypo of YED he always carries for emergencies.

That realization hits him in the pit of his stomach.

From the light filtering into the room through the shuttered windows, it looks like maybe half a day has passed. Which means he will be needing that fix very soon, and without his fix it's adios to Dean. Tough luck.

He's not going to make it this time.

Dean sighs and lets his eyes close again. This was always going to happen one day. He knew it was a risky decision when he ran away from the institution they kept him in and chose a life for himself. He lives by and for danger, and one day that choice was always going to turn around and bite him in the ass.

His final dose of YED will wear off very soon. He may as well accept he's going to die chained up in a locked cage with only a friendly monkey to notice it. Talk about overkill. And the irony is, if the Pompatus Box has been destroyed already, he may as well have stayed home on Baby.

He consoles himself with the thought that at least his Baby will be OK. She's programmed to lift off after 24 hours, or if he dies, which seems inevitable this time. He has always hated the thought of his special lady being impounded as salvage, seized by the authorities for non-payment of tax or some such crap. He would rather have her dive into the Sun than end that way.

Fate has proved that he was right to make Sam stay aboard. Soon the errant princeling will be safely winging his way back to Terra and the bosom of his patrician family. That idea strangely comforts him too. When did he start to care about the schmuck?

These thoughts flitter around in his head like butterflies as he slowly sinks into an addled torpor, drifting in and out, his vision a blur. The end will be painful but quick and pretty soon it will all be over for Dean.

Well, he managed to survive a few extra years, but maybe... maybe he was meant to have died with his father...

TBC

* * *

A/N: Looks like, whether Benny means to kill him or not, Dean's going to time out before he gets back to him tomorrow. Poor Dean. Fate seems to have caught up with him. More soon.


	20. In His Hour of Need

A/N: Thanks for the reviews/faves/follows. Glad I'm still keeping you involved. Now! Dean is locked in a monkey cage in the pirate lair at the Daffodil monkey track, breathing his last breath...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 20: In His Hour of Need) by frostygossamer

* * *

Whack! Smack! Bang, crash, wallop! Aaaargh! Thump.

Dean is shocked awake by the sound of a commotion in the corridor outside. His brain is spinning and it takes him a second to focus and remember where he is. Oh yeah. Naked on the floor of a room full of frightened, chattering capuchins.

Bang bang! Boom, crash, wallop! Aaaargh! Thump thump.

Someone is getting hurt outside, more than one someone. In actual fact, it sounds like a whole bunch of pirate crew are getting the crap kicked out of them right beyond the door to the monkey room. There are flashes of lightning too, discharges of projectile and plasma weapons and cries of pain followed by the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the floor. It seems to Dean like a minor war has broken out.

Suddenly his prison door is flung back crashing on its hinges, and Dean is dimly aware of a tidal wave entering the room. Even the capuchins fall silent, cringing in the back of their enclosures. Something that seems like a giant octopus flies to Dean's cage, handsy and grabby. It starts pawing at the thing and manhandling him through its rattling bars, tugging at his neck chain. Dean pulls back defensively, on reflex, but it doesn't stop.

"Damn it! Keys! Uh, hang tight. Be back with you in ONE second."

Before it leaves the room, Dean notices the shape has a bloody sword in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. Moment's later it returns carrying a bolt cutter, its weapons stuck in its belt.

"Found the freakin' keys."

Hissing with concentration, it proceeds to free Dean, cutting the padlock off of his cage and the chain attached to the collar around his neck with two quick snaps.

"C'mon, man. We gotta get outta here. Stat!"

It reaches in the cage and drags him up from the floor. Something familiar about its voice finally works its way into Dean's woozy brain.

"S-Sam?"

His throat is dry and croaky. Sam? Here? Didn't he tell the big doofus to stay put?

"Nah, it's the Sugar Plum Fairy. Yeah, it's Sam, you jerk. Who did you think it was?"

And it IS Sam. Snarky and gaspy and desperate but definitely Sam. Dean tries a weak smile, but it's sad. Nice try, buddy, but no banana. He flops back onto the ground.

"Too late, Sam. You gotta go. Too late for me. I'm outta time."

Sam fervently shakes his head. "Never too late, Dean. You think I'd come here empty-handed?"

He pulls a black bag from his back pocket. "Got your poison right here."

Dean stutters, unable to comprehend this unexpected aversion of fate. "Y-you got my..."

"I CAN count to 24, Dean. Lemme do the honours and then we can get the hell outta here."

Dean can barely feel the prick of the needle on his skin, but he can't help smiling as the warm familiar sensation floods his body. It stimulates his every nerve and recharges his vital organs. The YED brings him back to life. Stumbling to his feet, he allows Sam to get a shoulder under his arm and they flee from that place together.

In the hall outside, butchered bodies lie all around in crimson pools of blood. No Benny. No one stops them.

When they are safely gone, the stunned capuchins start their alarm cry.

Sam hails a Daffodil Yellow cab.

=O=

Back aboard Baby, Dean heads the ship out into space before letting Sam half carry him into the Auto-Decontaminator suite and help him up onto the treatment table. Dean's energy reserves are so depleted that he falls into a dead sleep almost immediately and Sam reluctantly leaves the machine to take care of him for a while.

The YED will heal Dean, but the battering he took this time has done way more damage to his body than the superficial cuts Sam saw it heal before. Dean came DAMN close to the cut-off point. It could take the YED several hours to finish the job on its own.

Sam's nerves are tingling. He might have spend years at military college and graduated head of his year but he has never seen actual combat before. It's so much MORE than he ever imagined. He's finding it a little harder to wind down than he expected. And, on top of that, he's WIRED that he managed to find Dean and get him back alive.

He cleans up and replaces his chosen weapons, the sabre and pistol he grabbed from Dean's arsenal before sallying forth to find him or die trying.

Dean is a lucky guy. Sam waited alone on Baby for HOURS until he made up his mind that something BAD had gone down and Dean OBVIOUSLY needed him. Everything in his romantic make-up told him that he HAD to go save the day and snatch his Dean back from the hands of who-freakin'-ever had gotten their murderous paws on him.

Sam found the monkey track by complete chance. Who even knew that Dean had a transponder sewn under the skin right above his hip, and that it allows Baby to keep track of him when he goes planet-side? Not Sam. But Baby let him know.

He was attempting to search Dean's activity log, to find some hint of where the hell the jerk had gotten stalled, when a random display from the transponder popped up. A flashing red star indicated the racetrack as his current location. When Sam couldn't find any trace of Dean in the public part of the building he KNEW he had been right to come after him.

The military training his grandfather insisted every prince be obliged to undertake suddenly kicked in. He SLASHED and BLASTED his way through the crowd of armed dirtbags that tried to keep him from Dean, so possessed he suffered only nicks and scratches. When he found Dean alive his heart almost burst with joy.

And Sam needs to be with him right this second.

He hastily strips down, trashes his bloody clothing and opens the door to the Auto-Decontaminator suite. He ignores the warning bells that object to his breaking the airtight seal. Dean is lying on the table bared by the machines, his naked skin a patchwork of blue, black and red. One green eye is swollen shut, the other watery and unfocused, his cheeks bruised and puffy, his once perfect lips swollen, cut and bloody.

Sam flies straight to his side and pulls his battered body into his arms. He unbuckles the tight collar from around Dean's neck with trembling fingers and flings it aside, pressing his lips to the wheal it has left on the flesh of his neck. Dean protests, but only vaguely, as Sam hugs him tight against his bare chest.

"Dude, don't you freakin' squish me, you big ape."

He makes no attempt to pull away. It feels nice to be held, very nice. No one has held Dean that way since he lost his dad. And it has been too long.

Ridiculously, Sam can only sob, "I saved you, man. Dean, I saved you."

TBC

* * *

A/N: That's an understatement. Sam has the potential to save more than Dean's skin. But does Dean agree? More soon.


	21. So Close and Yet Too Far

A/N: Sam has saved Dean from Pirate Benny's lair in the nick of time. They both need a while to mend...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 21: So Close and Yet Too Far) by frostygossamer

* * *

Wrapped in the healing vapour of the steam-shower together, Sam insists on detailing Dean's every injury by hand. He's using his lips to soothe every... single... bump... and boo-boo. Dean allows him to do this because... well, because. It's not unpleasant.

Truthfully, it feels pretty good and Dean can use a little cosseting right around now. Even from this long-haired, overemotional embarrassment of a man. The YED is thrumming through his system but his neck and ass still ache a little from the collar and a night on the cage floor.

Normally Dean resorts to numbing pain, emotional as well as physical, with whiskey. But this is also good. Not that Dean is a fan of girly tender-heartedness. Ever. But, hey, almost two metres of manly Sam can hardly be mistaken for girly. Those dimples though, they're maybe a little girly, huh?

"You shouldn't've made me stay behind," Sam mumbles against Dean's skin.

"Dude, you woulda wound up in the same damn cage as me."

That's logic speaking. Dean tells himself he only really cares about losing a valuable asset but, if he's honest with himself, the guy is getting to be more than that. Sam isn't convinced by his reasoning.

"Nah. We couldn't've BOTH fallen in the son of a bitch's trap. 'Cause I woulda had your back."

Dean wonders if Sam might have a point. He had thought of him as some wussy pampered pet who wears uniform in public because it looks good on an expensive clotheshorse like him. He never realized that the military training they gave minor royals was the real deal. He assumed they would get a wave through. It came as a surprise that Sam could actually handle himself in a fight.

Not only in a fight. Sam is doing a pretty fair job of handling Dean too. Those long, sensitive fingers are playing his body like a clarinet. Dean can't help simply melting in the bigger guy's arms. Sam leans him up against the deliciously cool wall of the shower chamber, lips locked on his collarbone. A knee finds its way gently between his legs, slim digits caressing the pert cheeks of his ass, a questing thumb slipping between.

Dean isn't averse to this. They have an understanding.

"Had you chained up like some ANIMAL," Sam sobs.

His lips are soft against Dean's abused neck. The raw image seems to excite something in him. Dean feels the guy's manhood stiffen against his. It's looking like reciprocity in the shower is a distinct possibility. Yeah, sure. Bring it on.

Then Sam goes too far. He tries to move in for a kiss.

Nuzzling at Dean's shoulder and nibbling his neck are fine. Dean can let Sam do that all day. Beats a machine's not so tender touch any day of the week. But then he slides a sneaky hand up the back of Dean's neck and tilts his face towards him. His soft lips are on Dean's mouth before he knows what is happening. Still slightly dazed, Dean lets it continue for a spell before he reacts, pushing the big guy away.

"What the...? Hey! No kissy-face, bitch. Not the deal."

Sam looks genuinely confused. "I- I thought we were having a- a moment."

Dean should have known it was on the cards. Sam has clearly chosen him as the new object of his sappy devotion. Dumb-ass.

"A freakin' moment? I don't have moments with cargo."

But, damn it, yes they WERE having a moment and that won't do. Dean needs to put a stop to this without delay. He stomps out of the shower, shutting off the warm steam with a wave of his hand.

Sam is left quietly dripping in an empty chamber, the air suddenly clear and surprisingly cold.

He follows Dean out onto the main deck and up to the captain's cabin door. Dean is inside angrily pulling on his PJs, wincing and cursing as he tries to bend still slightly stiff and sore limbs into sleeves and pant-legs.

When he notices Sam in the doorway, he heaves an exasperated sigh.

"Dude, it's time you went home to your grandpa. You're fit. You're clean. You're DONE."

That is so NOT what Sam wants to hear.

"Oh no, no, no, Dean! NOT going back there. NEVER wanna go back there. Dude, I ran away from that phoney life. Why can't I stay right here with you? I can be your, uh, your sidekick. I said we'd make an awesome team, you and me. And, jeez, for two 'straight' guys, the sex is MORE than good. So... yeah?"

Well, it is for Sam and he's pretty sure Dean is only faking that he doesn't enjoy it.

Dean was afraid this would happen. He let the guy get too close. He should have known that a soft head like he is would muddle up sex and romance. Dean NEVER makes that mistake. But he tries not to come off too heartless. The poor guy has clearly misread his signals.

"Sam, this sappy way you're feeling about me. It IS gonna wear off."

Sam is obstinate. "No. It won't."

Dean persists. "You gotta know it's ONLY an after-effect of the Demonblood."

"Nah, I doubt that. Sure, I guess that's how it started, but if you'da known me before, you'da known I was ALWAYS this way. Guess I'm just-"

"You're NOT gay. Because the fiancee? Giveaway."

Dean is a black or white kind of guy. He doesn't believe in rainbows.

Sam pauses for a moment to think of his lost Jessica. The day he met her, his first day at officer training school, she became the object of his selfless devotion. He adored her for her beauty, her kindness and her innocence. He immediately recognized her as his spiritual soulmate. Her gender actually didn't have so much to do with it.

He has been feeling drawn to Dean in precisely the same way. Jessica was Sam's Cinderella, Dean is his Prince Charming. Same difference. And, let's face it, Dean is every bit as beautiful as Jessica was. So gay, straight, pansexual? Not all that relevant here.

"No, Dean. I was gonna say, I'm just hyper-romantic, kind of a fool for love."

Dean blinks. That word gives him the jitters. The whole concept is something he has never gotten familiar with growing up, or even after years of strictly casual womanizing. He's long suspected it's another media fiction designed to sell product.

"You believe in fairytales too, huh? Dude, love isn't REAL."

He says it like it's a proven fact even stupid people ought to know.

Sam looks down at him pityingly. "Dude, uh-huh."

Dean so does not need his pity. He points an angry finger right at Sam.

"That attitude right there is exactly why you gotta go back. You are NOT my sidekick OR my goddamn lover. Crap, you could be a freakin' performing chimp for all the relevance you have to ME and THIS. I'm gonna take you HOME and you better get used to the idea."

With that Dean grabs the door and slams it in Sam's face. Sam stands there a second, damp and naked, and feeling like a dumped puppy. Then he picks up his dropped jaw and goes to get himself a towel to dry off, grumbling all the while.

"Freakin' pigheaded jerk."

He rubs listlessly at his wet hair, wondering what to do next. He's starting to think Dean is so deep in denial he could pilot Cleopatra's barge. A blind man could see there is something crackling between them. And, no, it's not just physical, not just pharmaceutical. They chime together somehow.

When he makes up his mind to tell him so, he opens Dean's cabin door and walks in, ready to bawl the idiot out. But Dean is feigning sleep already, and he looks so perfect that Sam shrugs and lifts the covers to slide in bed beside him. He says not a word as Sam quietly snuggles up against his back.

But Dean's not asleep. He's planning a stopover in Campobello.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Looks like Sam made his move too early. Dean's not ready for commitment. Next chapter soon.


	22. Return to Terra

A/N: Dean has decided Sam is getting too close. Sam doesn't think he's all the way there yet. Dean's not giving him the chance...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 22: Return to Terra) by frostygossamer

* * *

It's easy enough to drug Sam as he lies sleeping on what has inappropriately become his side of Dean's bed. One tiny prick and Dean's long-term guest is no longer a problem. Once Dean succeeds in manhandling the inert hunk into his ship's stasis chamber and he cranks it up to eleven, that is it. The ride to Terra is a peaceful one.

He calls Jo on his intercommunicator and informs her that he's finally snagged his prize and is ready to hand him over. Jo is delighted.

"Great! I'll wire his people right away. They're ready to welcome him home with open arms the minute he gets back. His grandfather, the Grand Duke is gonna be so relieved to give the paparazzi some good news for a change."

Dean reminds her about his bottom line.

"As long as he's ready to open his wallet."

The guy is worth bucks only as a commodity. Dean has to remember that. The assignment was about retrieving a missing person and reuniting him with his family. Nothing more.

He did NOT go to Boristown to pick out a husband.

=O=

Dean sets Baby down on the designated airfield closest to the Grand-Ducal palace and is immediately admitted to the residence, without formalities. Sam has been transported from Dean's ship, still in stasis inside a monitored unit. The unit's instruments indicate that his vital signs are strong and healthy.

Grand Duke Samuel is every bit as pleased as Jo believed he would be. Although he's an old soldier himself and generally a somewhat stern man, anxious months worrying about the fate of his young heir have weighed heavily on his heart. Seeing the older man's eyes light up, on seeing his grandson again after so long apart, makes Dean feel a little better about what he's doing.

The Grand Duke taps the glass window over Sam's face.

"He seems to be in great shape."

Dean sees that he's tempted to release Sam from the unit immediately. He warns him to resist the temptation.

"You need to let him thaw out slow. Open it up now, there could be trauma."

He wishes he didn't sound so much like a nervous mom. Samuel steps away from the unit, folding his hands behind his back and assuming a more formal air. He waves a hand at a functionary who steps forward with a small keypad on a silver salver.

"We agreed your fee, Captain. I hope you'll accept a thank-you bonus."

Dean tries not to smirk as Samuel keys a short series of numbers into the keypad and Dean's payment is directly transferred to his account. He ponders for a moment how a human being's worth can be translated into mere money. But he's aware everything comes down to money in the end.

Samuel chuckles. "My grandson has always been a wilful young man. I'd guess you had your work cut out to find him and bring him back to home and duty."

Dean finds himself saying, "Oh, he was no trouble."

But he wants that bonus so he hastily adds, "Not after I'd tracked his wily ass down and snatched him right outta the hands of that gang of dangerous cutthroats and brigands he'd gotten himself mixed up with."

He may as well let the guy know what he's paying for. Samuel seems impressed. He shakes Dean's hand heartily.

"Thank you again, Captain Dean."

Dean bobs his head. "No, thank YOU, Your, uh, Highness."

The transaction is clearly over and Dean is dismissed. He turns and walks out of the audience room without looking back. Another job well done. Another detour in his life straightened out.

Maybe another opportunity passed up.

=O=

As he takes Baby out of Terran orbit, Dean tries not to dwell on the past. Sam is back where he should be and that is a weight off of Dean's shoulders. Now he can get on with his life without the drag chain.

He doesn't need a deputy. He's a one-man band. And it isn't like he could really USE a guy who has been known to haul ass to the other side of the multi-satellite system and try to die of a broken heart. Who NEEDS blind devotion like that? Dean isn't going to let himself WANT it either.

So Sam is good with a keen sword and a loaded handgun? The guy doesn't need a life like Dean's. Even Dean doesn't really want a life like his. The alternative sucked, is all. Sam could have gotten himself dead and all because the Demonblood confused his muzzy head and made him believe they were meant for each other or some such crap. It will wear off soon enough. Dean has learned it's always best to let that kind of nonsense go. It hurts less that way.

On the other hand, Walker is a liar and a slimy toad, and Dean has decided not to let THAT go. If Walker has destroyed the Pompatus Box for Pirate Benny that means Dean isn't going to get paid for bringing it back. Sure, he will get a few credits for his time, but the big bucks will be off of the table. That makes him mad. He wants to find Walker and take his payment out of the guy's hide.

With a vindictive snicker, Dean sets a course for Walker's last known hangout.

=O=

The next time he wakes, Sam is in his childhood bedroom in the Grand-Ducal palace back on Terra. He has a bad headache and a his tongue feels like sandpaper. Almost before he can take in his change of location, there's a polite knock at the door and an elderly footman enters.

The footman carries a laden breakfast tray. Sam recognizes this man as Barrymore, an old family retainer. Huh, this definitely IS home, damnit! Some day he's going to find Captain Dean and punch him in the face.

The old man smiles politely, laying the tray down on the bed.

"Morning, Master Samuel. Did you sleep well?"

Sam finds two Tylenol on his tray, and he takes them with a swig of juice before responding.

"What's the date, Barrymore? How long have I been back?"

The old man ignores his sulky tone and treats him to a benign grin.

"You arrived last night, sir. It appears you were, shall we say, unconscious. Artificial stasis, I think they call it."

So that was Dean's trick? The coward put him in stasis because he didn't want to deal with Sam's protests. Yeah, because he was afraid of Sam talking him out of it.

"And the guy who brought me back?"

He grasps at the hope that Dean is still around to suffer his righteous indignation. But no.

"I believe paid off and long gone, sir."

Surely he left a final word of some kind.

"No message?"

"None, sir."

Sam grits his teeth. Dean could have said goodbye, the chickenhearted jerk. But he isn't going to get mad, that would only make him feel worse and he feels bad enough as it is. The old servant smiles warmly.

"If you don't mind me saying, we're all very glad you're home, sir."

The sentiment sounds genuine, but Sam could have used that sentiment coming from someone else right now. Still, it's not the old servant's fault that age has taught him to be more honest about his feelings than emotionally locked down Dean.

"Thank you, Barrymore. But I can't honestly say so myself.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Poor Sam. Dean dumped him! And just when he thought he had found a proper fairytale prince's happy-ever-after. But we're still a long way from the end of the story. More soon.


	23. Enodrome Diner

A/N: A little time has passed and Dean has been kept busy hunting Gordon Walker. Well, he's got to do something to keep his mind off Sam...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 23: Enodrome Diner) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean hoofs it straight in the diner right across the street from the Technopolis spacedrome. He has spent the last week following the figurative vapour trail of the crooked flier Walker. He really needs to see the ashes of that damned Pompatus Box once and for all before he can bring himself to report back to Captain Harvelle that it's lost for good.

He can be a little anal about completing a job sometimes. He's not used to failing. Besides, he needs someone to answer for his lost bonus, not to mention the beating he took from Benny and his pirate crew. Someone owes him a few broken bones.

The Enodrome Diner is a known hangout for working fliers and SOMEONE in here today is going to tell Dean exactly where Walker is, if he has to throttle it out of them.

First he needs a beer, or two beers or maybe six.

Dean has been on this hunt for days, and he has left his heavy boot prints across the seamy side of all three moons. So far he hasn't snagged even one of Walker's tail feathers. Dean's luck has been anything but good. He hates to think maybe he left his lucky talisman back on Terra.

He stands at the bar and deliberately asks the petite but curvaceous chick bartender to get him the strange label beer from the highest shelf of the cooler. He does that so he can admire the way her skirt rides up and shows her lace panties, as she stretches on tiptoe. When she serves his drink, he rewards her with his trademark smile and a good tip.

Above the bar a digital message board flashes up Satellite News headlines from Terra. Minor anti-Terra demonstrations on Eno - Random Australasian bush fires - Political hostages exchanged in Eastasia - Royal Wedding announced in Campobello - Cute puppies rescued from a flash flood.

Dean smiles to himself. Sounds like Sam has moved on. Good for him. He sips his cool beverage and turns around slowly, taking in the room. There are several guys and chicks he knows, fliers, mechanics. He's pretty sure that a few of them are buddies with Walker. In fact, where to start?

Then - "Gah!" - he nearly chokes on his beer.

That ratfink Walker is sitting there bold as brass chomping on a beefsteak right in the booth by the front window. How did Dean not see him before? He has been showing the guy's mugshot around for so long and yet he walks right by him? Huh! He guesses the joker thinks he's safe hiding in plain sight.

He is so NOT.

Walker's eyes are part-closed in pleasure as he eats, oblivious to the world around him. Dean silently slides onto the bench opposite and remains unnoticed for a couple seconds. When Walker opens his eyes to slice another mouthful of steak, he does a double-take. He quickly slaps on a toothy grin.

"Jeez, Dean, you're not, uh... How you been?"

"Thought I was dead, huh Walker? Almost. But I came back."

Dean's tone is deadly dry. Walker swallows nervously.

"You, uh, still working on that diplomatic balls-up?"

"Nah," answers Dean.

Walker visibly relaxes, but Dean isn't finished.

"Wasted a buttload of time on the case but, uh, turned out some mother had already freakin' nuked the Pompatus Box. Cost me one goddamn FAT finder's fee."

The hairs on Walker's neck bristle.

"Them's the breaks, I guess," he hazards, weakly.

Dean nods in silence for a moment before suddenly reaching over, grabbing Walker by the back of the neck and slamming his devious face in his creamed potatoes. Walker scrabbles to escape his grasp but Dean keeps him down.

"A little bird told me some butthead in this very diner was responsible for destroying the sucker, and I am so NOT a happy camper."

Walker chokes, flailing in his plate of food. Other patrons start to notice and look concerned. Dean shoots them a laser-like glare that keeps them at a distance.

"Since when you been in bed with freakin' terrorists, Walker? Damn Selenitists?"

Walker struggles to speak. "I- I wasn't. I- I didn't. Dean, ugh. Lemme up, man."

Dean isn't feeling lenient. "Yeah? It's down to YOU I lost out on a big-ass win. You gonna repay me for that, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah." Walker gurgles in his gravy. "Listen. I got money. She gave me plenty for it."

Dean lets him sit up. "She who? Paid you plenty for what?"

Walker leans back and takes a deep breath. He tries to clean himself up with a handful of paper napkins.

"Miss Meg Masters. She paid me a mega-wad of credits to get the box back off of Benny Lafitte, fake burning it and get it to her instead. Her plan all along."

"You DIDN'T destroy it?"

Dean wasn't expecting that. He needs a second to take in the plot hitch.

"So you're telling me you were working for Meg freakin' Masters?"

Walker nods emphatically. "Since day one. You saw me talking with her on the transport after the dogfight, right?"

Dean nods. He remembers seeing them chatting together but he's still confused.

"Masters has the box now? Then why'd she even hand it over to Benny? Why not hang onto it and just tell the guy she'd destroyed it? Why the game of 'Hot Potato'?"

Walker chuckles. "'Cause Benny is freakin' paranoid. He doesn't trust anyone he can't buy. Meg told me she'd had to let the Selenitists have the real box and she'd pay me to go infiltrate the group and snatch it back for her. Said she'll need it as insurance after the crap hits the fan."

"Insurance?" Yeah, that sounds about right.

Walker blows his potato-filled nose on a damp napkin.

"And don't ask me what's in it. Masters told me she wanted the seal intact. Reckon she thought it would jinx the deal to open it up."

Yeah, that does sound like the hard-nosed yet superstitious businesswoman Dean met. She wants to let Benny think he's running things but she's playing him all the damn time. And now she has something she can use against him in the future.

"Dude, I'm getting to think jinxing that freakin' deal would not be a bad thing."

Dean is suddenly wistful for a time when everyone wasn't motivated only by money. No angel himself, at least he would never have gotten into something that could actively bring 'War on Terra' simply for the cold hard cash. Dean still has some of the principles his military man father instilled in him. They don't make men of character like John anymore.

As Dean's eyes mist over a little, Walker sees his chance and makes a dart for the door. But Dean is too fast for him and grabs him by the collar of his duster coat before the door-jingle has stopped jangling.

"Not so fast, Gordon buddy. There's the little matter of my lost credits."

Walker exhales wearily. "You let me go, I can go get you the credits. I'm not exactly hauling them around in my back pocket. Got a secret account in the Technobank of Eno under the name of Sterling Brown."

Dean scoffs. "You never heard of bank runs in time of war, huh?"

That gibe seems to motivate Walker, who twists around and catches Dean with an unexpected knee to the groin. As he folds up, Walker follows through with a stamp on Dean's foot. This also connects with bone, owing to Walker wearing the same heavy boots Dean wears. He gleefully leaves Dean crumpled up on the sidewalk and makes his escape.

Cursing, Dean pulls out his pocket intercommunicator and has Baby patch him through to Enoan Security. Between winces, he gives them an anonymous report on a certain rogue flier with an illegal bank account full of illegitimate untaxed funds.

That'll teach the douchebag!

TBC

* * *

A/N: Ooh! Nasty knee to the ahem. So, the Pompatus Box WASN'T destroyed. Aha! The game is still afoot. More soon.


	24. Masters Inc

A/N: First a quick catch-up with Sam. Sam never was lucky in love...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 24: Masters Inc.) by frostygossamer

* * *

The morning after Dean returned the wilful Prince Sam to his ancestral abode...

After his first breakfast back home, Sam showers and dresses in the trendy threads he hasn't worn in what seems like decades, a tunic shirt and kilt in the latest polka dots. His filibeg swirls freely as he descends the stairs to seek out his grandfather Samuel, the Grand Duke.

He finds the older man parked behind the enormous gilded oak desk in his office. He's occupied with signing papers that deal with the official business necessary for the smooth running of Campobello. The tedious side of government. It's a job that Sam never wanted but he always expected would be his someday.

Samuel at first doesn't notice Sam's approach. "Grandfather?"

The Grand Duke glances up from his paperwork and smiles warmly.

"Ah, Sam. You're up and about. Excellent!"

He jumps up to greet his grandson. He's wearing a kilt in the Campobello royal tartan, as per usual. It's a style he was born to wear. He has great calves. Striding around the desk, he puts his hands on Sam's shoulders.

"You look well, my boy."

Sam smiles weakly. "Someone has been taking good care of me."

Samuel nods. "Yes, I met him. Seemed like a very, uh, efficient young man. Expensive, but well worth it now we have you back."

Sam shrugs. "Didn't intend to ever come back."

His grandfather is aware of that, and he understands, after a fashion.

"I know, Sam. I do know that. But, now you ARE back, things will be better, I promise you. I have great plans for your future."

Sam sighs. He guesses he may as well accept his fate. At least, unlike his new love interest, the Grand Duke seems to want him around. And he can guess what plans await him.

Wedding plans.

=O=

Moons later, Dean is sitting in his command chair with his feet up on the dashboard enjoying a drink. Baby is speeding toward Luna and what Dean hopes is the end of his quest. With nothing better to do than monitor dials, his mind turns to a Satellite News item he spotted in the Enodrome Diner. Sam is getting married.

Sam is getting MARRIED. Dean should be happy for him.

It's a while since he reunited Sam with his family and Dean doesn't miss him at all. Not even slightly. Not when he arrives back on Baby and is welcomed by nothing more than a hospitable digital peeping. Not when his intimate injuries are assessed and treated with the cool efficiency of a top-of-the-range auto-care machine with its cold, inhuman touch. Not when, stretching out in the bed he again has all to himself, his fingers and toes find only the cool, empty corners of the mattress.

No, he's not missing Sam. At all.

Leastwise, things are finally coming together on the case. It looks like Dean has at last pinpointed the location of the Pompatus Box and he has communicated as much to Captain Harvelle.

Ellen was more than relieved to hear about it. The unfortunate diplomatic courier, Mr. Death, has already had to elaborate his faked bout of the collywobbles into a faked hospitalization, to cover for the awkward-to-explain delay. If retrieving the box takes much longer, Death is looking at some faked surgery. It's likely that he would rather succumb to the faked knife than own up to the real situation so late in the day.

Dean has gotten the case pinned down and Death shouldn't need to wait much longer.

For a while, the chances of any sort of happy ending to the Pompatus Box saga have looked pretty slim. But, as Dean sets Baby down in the Dianapolis business district, he can almost feel the damn box in his hands.

What can go wrong?

=O=

The new Masters Inc. building in Dianapolis is not merely a work of fine architecture it's also uniquely tall, its head high in Luna's clouds. The last few months, Meg has been steadily, and surreptitiously, moving her interests from Terra and from Eno to this new headquarters.

Descending from his rocketship clad entirely in inky black to match his mood, Dean heads downtown. Camouflaged in a single-breasted pinstripe three-piece suit, shirt and tie, he moves through the crowds of business people like a panther through a herd of oblivious cattle.

He vaults the entrance steps of the building three at a time and strides across the foyer with an unchallengeable determination. Ignoring Lobby Security, he enters the executive elevator and angrily punches the number for the penthouse. The owner Miss Masters' office occupies almost the entire top floor.

One of the new guys of Lobby Security moves to stop him, but his older partner checks him with an arm. With the latest in detector technology installed, no one packing heat is going to even get INTO the building. Today Dean is armed only with his charm, his resolve and his cunning.

=O=

Meanwhile upstairs, Meg is visiting her new office for the first time. She dumps her big purse and vintage real mink coat on the coat stand and hurries to the enormous floor-to-ceiling panoramic window to admire its magnificent view over the city.

Her office has been furnished with a large desk with a deep-cushioned leather armchair and a smaller matching, deliberately uncomfortable, guest chair. In one corner, a sprawling davenport sofa and a polished walnut coffee table make up a chill-out zone. A series of native American woodcarvings occupy niches along two sides of the room. The decorator cost a bundle.

After a moment of contemplation, Meg moves to sit in her creaky leather executive chair behind her heavy oak desk. The surface of the desk is occupied by a collection of exquisitely expensive desk furniture that she has acquired from here and there throughout an acquisitive lifetime.

Starting on the left, there's a small clockwork orrery of the Terran system mounted on a burlwood base, and a book slide holding several beautifully bound tomes of business law. An antique silver embellished inkwell and matching pen are mounted on a solid stand, beside a rack of monogrammed stationary with a locked letter drawer beneath. A miniature compass and sextant are displayed atop their own case, next to that framed etching that was in her spaceship cabin. It's something that always travels with her.

Meg is admiring each of her lucky pieces in turn, squaring them up along the top of her desk, when a sudden crash interrupts her concentration. The door shudders against the wall as Dean bursts into her office, primed to have this out once and for all.

TBC

* * *

A/N: OK. So any of you play hidden object games? Study this picture. Next chapter coming soon.


	25. Sex on Legs

A/N: Dean storms unarmed into Masters Inc. to retrieve the Pompatus Box...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 25: Sex on Legs) by frostygossamer

* * *

The door bounces off of the wall with a satisfying crash as Dean bursts into Meg's private office, full of hell's fury.

Startled by the noise, Meg jumps up from her chair. When she recognizes Captain Dean, she masks her surprise with a naughty grin. Dean guesses she has to know about his involvement in the search for the Pompatus Box from Benny. But evidently Walker didn't have time to alert her that the intrepid captain was not as dead as rumour suggested.

"Why, Captain Dean. You shoulda called ahead, hun. I woulda worn my fancy panties."

Dean isn't in the mood for frivolity.

"Not a social visit, Meg. You know what I've come for. Hand it over."

Meg smiles coyly. "I don't know what you mean, Captain. What could a lady like myself possibly have that a dashing soldier of fortune like you might want?"

"Knock it off, Meg," Dean snaps. "I know you have the Pompatus Box. Got that from a little squealer name of Walker."

Meg makes a disappointed face.

"Oh pish! And he swore so he'd be true. You know what they say? 'Men are such big fat liars.'"

Dean flops into the ungenerous guest chair. Hard as hell, it was clearly designed to make underlings uncomfortable in the presence of the big boss. Speaking of which, he glances around.

"No Miss de'Mon?"

Meg answers him sweetly.

"I'm afraid I was forced to terminate her employment when she was inexplicably bundled into an unmarked van. I think you know why. But don't worry. I've hired a new Miss de'Mon."

She winks, sliding along to the end of her desk. Fondling her orrery, she perches on top with her pretty legs crossed. As she casually runs her hand from ankle to back of knee, smoothing the seam of her sheer black silk stocking, Dean's eyes can't help but follow. When their eyes meet, he tears his gaze away and coughs. Something wakes up downstairs and he fidgets in his uncompromising seat.

"Turn down the burner, Meg. I know about Benny."

Meg desists. "Benny? Benny who? Do I know a Benny?"

Dean stretches out his long legs and cracks his back.

"You know it's kinda funny, because Ruby - that's ex-Ruby - had this idea you and Cap'n Benny, the wascally pirate, had a hot little sumthin' going on."

Meg tuts. "Oh REALLY, Captain Dean, Jolly Roger and I? Hardly my style."

"You do know he never meant to honour your deal, right? He meant to END you. Not so romantic, huh?"

"I had my suspicions. The guy's a Neanderthal. Can you blame me for protecting my interests?"

Dean laughs mirthlessly. "No one would blame you for that, Meg. Conniving in and profiteering from a 'War on Terra', hell yeah. Or did you think that hanging on to the Pompatus Box would help you scupper his evil plan? Lady, that ship's already sailed."

Meg gets down from her desk and sashays around behind his chair, trailing one hand along the back. Dean catches a tantalizing glimpse of a purple lace brassiere peeking through the open buttons of her bodice, highlighting her alabaster breasts.

"Scupper? Hun, I never intended to scupper a thing. I mean to let those crazy Selenitists play their little games. When Benny crowns himself King of the Fairies, that's when my box will come into its own."

"Then Masters Inc. gets its 'by appointment to Tsar Benny'? Yeah, Benny'll make good on that promise. Sure he will."

"Oh, he will, hun. Because, if he doesn't come through, I bring out the box. Benny wants to make Terra look like the Big Bad. He wants that little olive branch gone with the wind. The masses will go crazy when they find out Terra was into serious peace talks before Luna screwed them up. Not only do I have the evidence, that baby is forensically sealed. It'll be a slam diddly dunk."

She smiles at Dean and wanders back to the other end of her desk, sitting prettily on the edge.

"So, uh, exit Benny stage right?" he grunts.

"Something like that. Tell me, Captain Dean. You're an intelligent man who knows the price of milk. You wanna be in this with me? I'm taking on new staff right about now."

Dean isn't interested. He's kind of insulted she would even suggest it.

"Sorry, Meg. I'm already on someone's payroll. Humanity's. We Winchesters are men of peace."

Meg arches an eyebrow at the mention of that illustrious name.

"Winchester? Don't tell me you're related to the sainted General John Winchester? The guy that died a martyr for intrasystem unity?"

"You got it."

Dean stands up and advances toward Meg. She's a small woman and he's a big guy. He could hold her bottom-side-up and shake the information out of her if he has to.

"C'mon, Meg, hand over the box. I've wasted enough of my freakin' life on this case. Not leaving here without that goddamn overgrown matchbox."

Meg sighs theatrically. "So what? You gonna drive me to the bank and cool your heels while I get the Pomp-whatever from my safety-deposit?"

Dean grins. He's not falling for that misdirection.

"Nah. Not the bank. Keep it in some lockbox? I don't think so. Not with the threat of war in the air. You're a superstitious miss."

He scans the room. "No, you're gonna keep it close, very damn close. Nuh-uh, I'd guess it's in this room right here, hidden in plain sight."

Meg makes an 'O' with her lips, twirling a shapely ankle.

"In THIS room, Captain Dean? So where is it, tell me? Is it in my desk drawer? My file cabinet? Maybe it's up on the wall disguised as one of those precious little shamanic carvings. Or maybe it's in a hollowed out book on my bookshelf. Come on. Point it out, whydoncha?"

Dean re-scans the room with narrowed eyes. There are so many places that could hide a 12 by 8 by 6 inch box. Where should he start? Well, with Meg, obviously.

He makes a rush at Meg, watching to see which object she tries to protect, but Meg steps out of his way and grabs the picture frame off of the end of her desk. It's the Colt etching.

Dean laughs and jokes, "In comic-book land maybe."

But Meg peels the paper-thin synthetic handgun, which has been masquerading as the mere an image of a firearm, from its mounting and aims it at Dean.

"Fires real bullets. Ultra-slim, ultra-deadly. A little something I had my tech boys run up for me. Give you the worst damn paper cut you ever had."

Dean exhales loudly. Trust a tricksy dame like Meg to pull something like that. She fires but succeeds only in winging him in the right shoulder. Bleeding unusually profusely, the wound doesn't slow him down, but it makes a nasty mess of his jacket. He has no alternative left but to tackle her and knock the lethal weapon out of her hand.

Dean grapples the tiny female to the floor and they roll around thrashing back and forth. She proves as difficult to pin down as an ornery quarterback, all arms and dangerous knees. They wind up rotating around on the rug like a human millstone.

Then the door opens again and Building Security belatedly comes to Meg's aid.

TBC

* * *

A/N: How is Dean going to find the Pompatus and get out of here in one piece? More soon.


	26. Lightning Bolt

A/N: And now the rest of the scene in Meg's office. Dean and Meg are wrestling on the floor when assistance appears at the door...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 26: Lightning Bolt) by frostygossamer

* * *

The new brunette Miss de'Mon struts in, with two brawny guys from Security behind her. Replacement Ruby is clearly amused by seeing the two wrestling on the carpet. She folds her arms and snickers. She's wearing a military blouson over matching hot pants and thigh-length black leather boots with evil-looking dominatrix heels. She cuts a scary figure, petite but deadly like a black widow spider.

"Should I break this up, Miss Masters? Or are you enjoying yourself too much?"

The two Security guys pull Dean off of Meg while this darker Ruby helps her employer to her feet, retrieving and returning one of the lady's designer stilettos in the process. Meg collapses into her chair, fanning herself with her shoe.

"Phew! That was FUN! We must do that again sometime, honeybunch."

The two guards have hold of Dean by his upper arms. He shrugs them off and straightens his suit vest, brushing down his jacket and adjusting his tie.

"What do you want us to do with him, Miss Masters?" Ruby asks.

Meg waves a dismissive hand. "Take him away and lose him. I don't wanna see him again."

Dean acts surprised. "Seriously? And I thought we'd be so ON for a second date."

Meg sighs. "What can you do? You've got nothing."

Dean grins. "Sure I have-"

He turns and sucker-punches one Security guy then shoves the lunkier one, causing him to topple over and get tangled up in the coat stand with Dean. Before either goon recovers, Dean scrabbles to his feet and makes a run for the picture window. He shoulders it and drops out feet first like a cat, disappearing from sight in a blink.

Aghast, everyone runs to the window, Lunar wind blasting their faces through the gaping Dean-shaped hole.

"Sweet lord! That's gotta be thirty storeys!" gasps Ruby.

Then they jump back as Dean's recently acquired hovertank, which has been hovering out of sight a level below, peels off and soars away into the distance. He leaves the bad guys to curse and grind their teeth.

Meg takes a fast, worried scan around her office.

"Damn it!" she fumes. "He got the Pompatus Box."

How the heck did Dean work out where it was?

"If I EVER see that guy again he's gonna be HAMBURGER meat!"

=O=

Baby's airlock opens to admit her pilot with a welcoming purr. As always, she sounds pleased to see him home and, also as always, she's prepared for immediate take-off.

"I'm back, Baby!"

Dean can't help feeling faintly disappointed that there isn't another human being waiting to greet him, but he shrugs it off. The rocketship vibrates with a deep rumble as she rises, speeding them away from Meg and her futile wrath.

He takes the Pompatus Box from Meg's purse and places it on a pedestal table, discarding the bag.

How HAD he worked out where it was? Well, Dean prided himself on being a VERY good judge of the female sex and what makes them tick. And THIS particular lady, he was sure, would simply NEED to keep her future-proofing with her 24/7. So, short of sewing it into her brassiere, the next best place for it was in her always-at-hand capacious purse, which he immediately noticed was central to her field of view at all times. Thusly...

Running his fingers over the raised gold lettering on the top of the box, he wonders what Pompatus actually means. He could sneak a peek in the box and find out, but he says to himself "No" and goes instead to wash up.

Rolling around on the floor with vermin has made him feel kind of icky.

=O=

He strips, leaving a trail of clothes behind him on his way to shower, not so much a neat freak since Sam. He lets the steaming hot water relax his body and mind, until unbidden memories of Sam's big hands massaging his hurt away cause stress tears to form in his eyes.

He remembers how, back in the orphans' asylum, the shower would be the only safe place to cry. It's a bittersweet memory. But he was a kid then. He's not a kid anymore. He needs to man up. This is just a phase. He'll get over it.

How many times has he woken from sleep lately with the ghostly feel of Sam's hand splayed on his belly, Sam's tongue on his nipple, Sam's arousal pressed against his thigh? The chicks he has been hooking up with lately couldn't wipe THAT sense memory from his brain.

He has GOT to pull himself together.

He re-emerges from the shower room wrapped only in a long, white silk dressing-gown, drying his hair with a towel. He drapes the towel around his neck and pours himself a well-earned whiskey. It's time to message Jo and tell her she should contact her mother.

Yummy. Big payout on the horizon.

=O=

Dean makes sure he's presentable before he makes contact with Convoy Control. He informs Jo that the target has been acquired and they need to arrange a discreet handover. She is more than glad to hear it.

"Mom's gonna be so relieved this thing is finally over. And I'm glad to see you came through unhurt. Everything OK your end?"

It's sweet of Jo to show her concern, but then Dean knows she's a nice kid. It's nothing he needs to take personally.

Dean yawns as he sits down at his command console.

"Sure. A-OK."

That is true from a physical viewpoint at least. Jo smiles kindly.

"You look beat, Dean."

Dean stifles another yawn. He hasn't slept too well since... since he's been alone.

"When this job's over I'm gonna wanna lay in bed for days."

Jo rejoices. "After Mom gets this Pompatus thing back where it belongs, you can sleep as long as you want. With whoever you want."

Dean grins mischievously. "Long as I get my money, that last one shouldn't be a problem. Got a long list of ladies waiting on a call, everyone a babe."

Jo laughs at that because it's so Dean. He has a way of keeping her at arm's length. Jo already knows she has been friend-zoned in the nicest way. She leans conspiratorially toward her mic, lowering her voice.

"You opened it yet?"

Dean acts like that was a professional insult.

"Jo, you know I NEVER interfere with a package. That's an unwritten law."

Jo laughs again. "Aw, Dean, that's so you. No sense of childlike whimsy. You're all business, huh?"

Dean shrugs. When HE was a child, 'whimsy' would have gotten you a smack on the head.

=O=

After Jo signs off, Dean sits there for a minute or two longer, finishing his drink. Maybe she has a point? Setting down his empty glass, he wanders over to the pedestal table and checks out the box that has been the centre of all these shenanigans. He spells out the name on the lid.

"P. O. M. P. A. T. U. S. What the hell DOES that mean?"

He has never let inquisitiveness get the better of him before.

But, someplace in his mind, Sam's voice asks, "So you're not even a tiny bit curious?"

Dean has no doubt Sam would have the thing opened in a heartbeat. The big kid's all about emotional gratification. But, hey, even if Dean wanted to open it, it's locked and he doesn't have the key. No one has the key. Except Death maybe? Or Henriksen, the official military escort? His mental cogwheels are turning.

Meg had a duplicate box made. Maybe she also had an identical duplicate key? Shame he didn't think to grab it with the box. Then again, did he look in her purse? Dean snatches the discarded purse from the floor and hunts around. He comes up with a heavy keychain full of keys. That bitch sure likes to keep her secrets secure.

One key stands out. It's a simple brass blank but it has a tiny fancy 'P' stamped on the flat. 'P' for Pompatus? No way.

Dean is triumphant. "Gotcha!"

Euphoric at his discovery, he has fitted the key in its lock, turned it and is flipping open the shiny brass catches before he even stops to think. He pauses for a second before swinging the lid open. Does he want to do this? Well, in for a penny. He opens the lid.

Dean stares into the box in silence for the longest time. At first his brow creases into a what-the-heck frown, and then he curses.  
Slamming the box shut, he runs onto his bridge and sets a direct course for Terra.

TBC

* * *

A/N: What IS in the Pompatus Box? And why is Dean rocketing back to Terra? Next instalment soon.


	27. Time for a Wedding

A/N: I'm sure you're all wondering about the contents of the box. But first we have to catch up with Sam. Back on Terra, it's church bells for him and his bride-to-be...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 27: Time for a Wedding) by frostygossamer

* * *

The organist is playing through the same hymn for the fourth time since Sam started counting. He and his bride-to-be Lady Amelia kneel on scarlet and gold velvet hassocks, facing the altar. They wait here in full view of a standing crowd of hundreds who have crushed into the ancient space of the chapel of Campobello Abbey.

Sam nervously tugs at his tight collar and fidgets with his scarf. Meanwhile the marriage celebrant takes his own sweet time with his nonsensical preparations.

Campobello's top wedding arranger has decorated the chapel in the latest fashion. Amelia's side of the nave looks like a rose garden, everyone decked out in lucky pink to match the bride's bouquet. Some have actually dyed their hair, even some of the men.

By contrast, the Grand-Ducal half of the nave is filled with noble, military, political and other influential people, all in their official attire. Only Sam's titled relatives have made any effort to dress like this is a joyous event. Sam and Amelia are both dressed in virginal white. Amelia wears a long veil and a simple silk gown in no way reminiscent of the tragic Jessica's ill-fated bouffant creation. Sam is in a shemagh, military tunic and plain kilt.

Sam doesn't doubt that Amelia qualifies to wear white. He's known her a long time and she's a lady of very proper values. Sam on the other hand doesn't know the half of what his body may have been put through before Dean found him. Still, his heart is pure. That ought to count for something.

He's wearing the crisp white dress uniform of a lieutenant general in the Campobellan army, a commission conferred on him by his grandfather in his capacity as Supreme Commander. Sam's chestful of medals and stars jingle and catch the light, not one of them awarded for actual combat. But, with his claymore on display, he looks the very model of traditional masculinity.

Sam chances a peek over his shoulder and the Grand Duke gives him a knowing wink of support. He turns to Amelia and she gives him a perfect sweet and disarming smile, visible through the white chiffon of her wedding veil.

She squeezes his hand and whispers, "It's going to be fine, Sam."

Amelia has been a good sport about everything. She was always Sam's grandfather's preferred candidate to wed his grandson, ever since they were both children. Nevertheless, when Sam decided he would rather marry his new love Jessica, despite having only known her a couple years, Amelia stood down meekly.

She knows Sam, Campobello's most eligible bachelor, always dreamed of finding a fairytale prince's true love's match. She understood when he found his soulmate in Jessica and was jealous only of his happiness. Then when Jessica met her untimely end, she tried hard to console him but failed, unable to convince him he would ever find another. She wasn't as surprised as many were when she heard he had run away.

When Sam suddenly returned from off-planet and the Grand Duke's plans were back on track, she stepped up to the plate and never once complained about the on-off nature of their courtship. Once again Amelia stands by Sam, always a good friend, and in less than an hour she will be more. She will be his wife and perhaps one day Grand Duchess of Campobello. If they ever get through the wedding.

Sam breathes deeply and grinds his teeth. For no reason, goosebumps run down his spine. He shudders, praying that the interminable ceremony will be over soon so he and his new bride can finally get out of the spotlight. Then a waiting car will whisk them away, first back to the palace and then off on a sequestered honeymoon.

That can't come a moment too soon.

=O=

Dean touches down in an event-allocated field almost a mile from the abbey. Scanning the area he realises he hasn't a hope in hell of getting there before the ceremony is over. Every road in toward the abbey precinct is choked with seething multitudes of flag-waving public and Civil Security. He considers his hovertank. Would the police allow a lightly armed air-traction vehicle within the protective cordon? He can but try.

Twenty minutes later the hovertank settles onto the lead roof of the transept. Dean's little trick of disguising it with bunches of gaudy balloons seems to have successfully misled Security into accepting it as a festive float. For a while at least.

Jumping out, Dean scouts around for a maintenance door and finds one which leads him down into the space between the roof and suspended ceiling of the west end of the nave. From here he can see the rows of guests and, in the distance, the backs of Sam and Amelia kneeling before the altar.

Dean takes a moment to reconsider. What is he doing here planning to kidnap the bridegroom right from under the nose of his family and guests? Isn't he already too late? Maybe he should leave and let the nuptials continue uninterrupted. That would be the proper thing to do.

Then he sees Sam turn his head and give his grandfather that desperate look. Come on. Dean KNOWS that this is NOT what Sam wanted. The guy told him enough times. Not the manacled life of a prince. Not the loveless arranged marriage. Not a bleak future of ceremonial duty after duty. Not HIS Sam.

He isn't here to kidnap Sam. He's here to RESCUE his ass.

"SAM!"

His yell is swallowed up by the murmur of the crowd below.

All the same, he could swear that Sam flinched when he called out to him. Encouraged, he finds an access ladder that descends to ground level within the stout walls and follows a passageway carrying pipes to the east end of the building. An access panel opens out into the priest's preparation room, the sacristy.

From here Dean can hear the mumbled chanting of the priest as he goes through the process of blessing the paraphernalia of marriage, rings, sashes, crowns. He opens the door to the apse a crack and can see Amelia looking beautiful in her pearlescent white bridal gown and silken veil. Beyond her kneels Sam, slightly slumped against her as if he is about to pass out.

Dean hisses, "Sam!"

Amelia hears him and lifts her veil slightly, sending a puzzled look to the vestry door. Dean points at Sam and she takes the hint, prodding her bridegroom with her elbow. Sam shakes himself a little and follows her gaze.

"Dean?! Damn it! What in hell are you doing here?" he hisses back.

Dean has to wonder himself.

"Dude!" he snaps. "You wanna come then come. Otherwise..."

Sam slowly shakes his head and responds in a hoarse whisper.

"In case you haven't noticed, jerk, we're getting freakin' MARRIED here."

But Amelia is watching him and she sees something in his eyes that doesn't reflect what he's saying aloud. It's a certain hopeless longing for a chance he thinks has passed him by. He thinks it's too late to follow his heart, and she doesn't want the man she marries to feel that way.

"Go!"

Sam looks at her, baffled for a second.

"Go, Sam. Or you'll always regret it."

Amelia really does understand her oldest friend more than he will ever know. When he told her the censored version of his story and she read between the lines. She meets Sam's eyes and he smiles then kisses her fondly on the cheek.

Uncertainly at first, he rises, legs feeling a little wobbly after kneeling for so long, and stumbles toward the sacristy door. He slips out before anyone has really noticed him move. Amelia waves away a concerned female Security operative.

"Water," she hisses.

The operative nods and returns to her place.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Shades of 'The Graduate' I know. But who could resist? Still more to come. Finally the Pompatus will be revealed!


	28. Up, Up and Away

A/N: Dean has come to steal Sam from his wedding and, finally, the contents of the box is revealed...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 28: Up, Up and Away) by frostygossamer

* * *

Sam joins Dean in the sacristy, softly closing the door behind him. Dean grasps him by the shoulders and they grin at each other for a moment, awkward about whether or not to hug. Sam checks out the sacristy window but Dean indicates the access panel and they make their escape along the passageway and then up the ladder back to the roof.

Sam loses his headdress somewhere along the way. Underneath, his long hair is held back from his face with a tartan ribbon. As they climb the ladder his claymore gets caught on a rung and falls clattering to the ground below. He hesitates for a moment, looking down, but Dean encourages him upward with a sharp whistle.

When Sam sees the hovertank parked on the transept roof, he is amazed.

"The hell is this thing?"

"Dude, you don't remember Boris's floating ironclad?"

Sam draws a blank. "Boris? Who the hell is Boris?"

Jeez, Sam was so out of it all back then he STILL doesn't remember his walk on the darkside. Dean decides against elaborating. Some traumas are better forgotten.

"Shut up and get in."

They climb in the tank and immediately lift off. The hovertank streaks away over the heads of the jubilant populus who have as yet no clue the event they came to see is about to be cancelled.

Sam has another question. "Man, what's with all the heart-shaped balloons?"

The tank is covered with them, big and shiny, six for a credit from one of the many wedding-themed merchandise stalls dotted all around. They worry Sam a little. Dean isn't normally a one for whimsicality or pink-hearted girly nonsense. Could be he's losing it? Dean snickers.

"Camouflage, dude."

=O=

By the time the Grand Duke has noticed Sam isn't coming back to the altar and mobilized his guard to search for his missing grandson, the hovertank is already in the air and racing toward the spot where Dean left his Baby. On the ground, troops manning anti-aircraft artillery wait for the order to force down the relatively slow ironclad.

After a hasty word with Lady Amelia, Samuel orders his men to stand down. The old man knows when he has been bested. He can't make his heir stay where he doesn't want to be. It was expecting a lot from him to go through the whole nuptial song and dance again.

Samuel suspects, though, that his grandson might not be simply running away this time. He came back from space different, all grown up. Perhaps he saw a glimpse of what he wanted from life out there. Perhaps he has gone to get it.

He's at least glad to know Sam has finally found ANY path that can make him happy. He only wishes he hadn't forked out for another royal wedding celebration before the boy made up his mind.

Heaving a sigh, he runs a hand over his characterful if bald head. Maybe he should just marry the jilted bride himself?

Yeah, sure.

=O=

Dean all but throws Sam into the ship and slams his hand down on the airlock lever. The ship shudders and rises up from the surface like a startled bird. Sam notes that Dean must have set the take-off function to cut-and-run before heading for the abbey. He wasn't expecting to fail in his mission to bring Sam back.

The escape has Sam feeling a little hysterical. He laughs himself silly, until he gets a stitch, then he stands there rubbing his side and panting.

"Dude, that has to be the wildest hostage retrieval ever."

Dean pauses from calibrating his pursuit evasion subroutines. Now that it's done he's beginning to feel a little less sure he did the right thing. Did he just ELOPE with this guy?

"You're cool with this, huh Sam?"

Maybe Sam WAS ready to move on. Maybe he's wrecked the guy's future. But Sam is all smiles.

"You're joking, right? I'm CRAZY about this."

He launches himself at his rescuer, trying to connect his lips with Dean's and steal a grateful kiss. Dean pushes him off, applying a sharp shove to the middle of his chest. It sends Sam reeling backward against the edge of an occasional table, almost knocking it over. He recovers his feet and stands there staring at Dean, rebuffed and confused.

Dean snorts. "Didn't get you back here to make like horny teenagers, Sam."

He folds his arms and manages to look genuinely annoyed. Sam is inclined to think it's an act. He brushes his long hair back off of his face with one hand, inhaling through his teeth. When is the guy going to come clean with himself? He recalls that he swore to punch this emotional coward right in the pretty face for ditching him.

Dean's quick reflexes block Sam's flying fist before it makes strike with his perfect nose.

"Hey! What the...?" he demands, perplexed.

"Dean, you dumped me and I NEVER expected to see you again. Tryna tell me you DIDN'T come get me today because you changed your mind about US? Yeah sure. And, in case you didn't notice, that was my freakin' WEDDING you snatched me from. Jealous much?"

"SAVED you from," Dean corrects him. "Stopped you making the biggest mistake of your life. You can be so much more than a freakin' media idol, Sam."

Sam seems to remember making that same point before Dean dumped him. He wanted to be all he could be, stretch himself, do something worthwhile with his life. The marriage was never his first choice. It was his grandfather's wish and it was the only option Dean had left him with, when he walked out of his life without even a goodbye.

"That IS kinda what I said," Sam mumbles, sulkily.

Dean is aware what he did to Sam was a little cruel, even though for the best reasons, so he doesn't push it. He waits quietly until Sam's eyes meet his again.

"So you're back now. Happy?"

Sam nods. "Sure."

Actually he totally is. It's a huge relief to be back aboard Baby after so long. Baby feels more like home than home. With that settled, Dean moves on to his other problem.

"OK, then first of all I wanna show you something. I need you to explain it to me."

=O=

Dean leads Sam through into the library. Sam pouts and follows him meekly.

There are things he wants to say to Dean, do to him, but they can wait. He's going to let Dean tell him whatever story he came up with to explain what he did today and so he doesn't have to admit he missed him. They will both know it's a lie, but Sam will pretend and Dean will get to keep his pride in one piece.

"Sure. Whatever you want. Ask away."

Dean indicates his pedestal table where he left the Pompatus Box.

"Got back the freakin' Pompatus. And, uh, opened it."

Sam's eyes widen. Two things he would have taken money on never happening.

"First of all, wow! Thought you'd NEVER get your hands on that freakin' box. And, second of all, wow! You OPENED it? You? Captain Never-interfere-with-a-package?"

Dean ignores his sarcastic tone and continues.

"Yeah, I opened it. And now I need you to explain it to me. I don't get it. What's inside it is... I don't get what the hell all the bullcrap was about."

Sam heads on over to the pedestal to take a look himself. He gingerly lifts the lid of the box and peers inside. Dean watches his expression as it changes from curiosity to wonder.

"Seriously?" It's not the reaction Dean thought.

The lovingly handcrafted wood case appears to contain only one thing, a fluffy toy. A little battered and the worse for overuse, the stuffed toy wears a retro-style space suit with the word - not the word, the NAME - Pompatus embroidered on it's chest in careful hand-stitches of gold thread.

Sam is certainly surprised, and he has to laugh. He's really not sure if this is the biggest letdown possible or the most marvellous discovery imaginable. He can't say what he expected the box to contain, a nuclear bomb, a miniature marble bust, an autographed biography, maybe a single pressed rose. Somehow this little gift occupies a point someplace between, delightful and yet terribly poignant.

"It's a teddy bear. Who'da guessed? A freakin' teddy bear!"

Dean stares at him expectantly. He had anticipated something a little less evident.

"It's a teddy bear. Duh. I get that. But what's the big freakin' deal, peace-wise?"

Sam barks out a laugh. "Dude, isn't it obvious?"

"If it was so goddamn obvious I wouldn't've had to pull off a freakin' commando raid to bring you here, now would I?"

Sam scoffs. "Course you would. You want me. The bear's got nothing to do with it."

Dean rolls his eyes skyward. The starry-eyed romantic is still mulish in his opinion of Dean's motives.

"Come on then, genius, explain it. In what way is this freakin' midget grizzly the magic charm that'll unite Terra and Eno in everlasting peace?"

Sam picks up the stuffed animal in both hands and checks it out minutely.

"Hmm... The suit is handmade and kinda cute. From the condition the bear's in, it's been loved a whole lot. This little guy's special."

He spots that a small note has been pinned to it's jacket. "Ah-ha, what's this?"

He unfolds the scrap of coloured paper and reads the message aloud.

"Dude, it says 'Please look after this bear. Thank you.' and it's signed John Q. Publik."

Dean grunts. "Sure, John Q. Publik is the President of Terra, but the guy's gotta be what 72, 73. And he's got no kids. Why'd he wanna send another grown man a freakin' comfort toy?"

"Hey, even Publik had to be a kid once. This has to be HIS actual stuffed bear. Guess he hung on to it. Sentimental value."

Dean is still mystified. "And he sent it to Eno why exactly?"

This sentimental crap goes way over Dean's head. He was brought up without sentiment. Sam has no trouble answering.

"Because, Dean, this fuzzy guy's gotta be the oldest and most precious thing he owns. You don't send something you cherish to someplace you're gonna make war on, ergo..."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "It's a freakin' trust exercise? That simple?"

"Simple works best, I guess."

Sam hastily puts the teddy bear back in its case.

"John Publik's making this a personal thing between him and President Ono. A heart-to-heart deal, yeah? We gotta get this to Eno. Today. And when I say 'we' I mean NO way are you gonna leave me behind AGAIN."

Dean laughs because they're already en route. He wasn't going to give himself the chance to get cold feet this time.

"Nuh-uh. Consider yourself shanghaied, Sammy."

TBC

* * *

A/N: Now you know what the - or is it who? - Pompatus really is. The most precious thing in the system, that's all. And, now Dean and Sam back are together, they have bonding to do. More soon.


	29. Negotiations

A/N: Sam is back, Dean has opened the box and the mission is almost done. A few relationship wrinkles to iron out first...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 29: Negotiations) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean has finally gotten his good luck, Sam, back where he belongs and they are on board Baby heading for Eno. Campobello is a mere smudge in the rearview mirror. As soon as they clear Terran space Dean is able to relax. He joins Sam, who is lounging on the couch in the library after helping himself to a bottle of whiskey and a couple glasses. He pours them both a tot when Dean takes a seat on the other end of the couch.

"Up your kilt!" It's a traditional Campobellan toast.

Sam is sitting on the couch, knees spread, in the traditional Campobello kilt-wearer's pose, relaxed if somewhat immodest.

"Backatcha!" responds Dean.

They both knock back their shots in one. Dean puts down his glass.

"The course is set and I'm not going anyplace without you, man. Had a long time to think, Sam, and you were right. I could use back-up, someone to watch my six, someone I can trust. Never had anyone I could totally trust before. Never thought I needed anyone, but I do. Someone handy with a blade, also good."

Sam grins at him. "Pretty handy with a pistol too. First in my company at officers' training."

"Doesn't hurt that you know how to handle yourself, military college boy."

Dean is enthusiastic enough but it still seems to Sam that he is backgrounding the relationship issue. He's going to have to push if he wants Dean to cave to his will. He sets his empty glass beside Dean's.

"So now you're offering me what? A situation? That all?"

Dean thinks about his answer for a moment. He's about to commit himself to something here and he's not easy with it yet.

"Guess I'm offering you a spot, sure. We, uh, we actually DO make a great team, you and me."

That is a surprising offer from Dean. A team? What happened to the inveterate one-man band? Sam reckons he has undermined the guy's resolution some with his awesome 'personality'. He sits up straighter and fakes careful consideration.

"I'm not exactly opposed to the idea, Dean. But, before we kiss on it, I got conditions."

Dean ignores the kiss part, for once, and narrows his gaze. "Conditions? Like what?"

He wasn't expecting Sam to be the one with reservations. Sam closes the space between them until they are mere inches apart.

"One. I get to choose the music once in a while."

He rests his right hand on Dean's knee and slips his left behind Dean's neck, moving his face in close.

"Two. I get to navigate now and again."

He leans closer until his lips brush against Dean's. Dean holds his breath waiting on Sam's three.

"And, three. On occasion I get to top."

Dean inhales sharply at the image of Sam letting Dean have his way with him for once, a fantasy he occasionally found himself entertaining while the big galoot was out of his life. Sam grabs his chance to crush his mouth against his captain's lips. Dean finds himself without power or inclination to resist and melts into Sam's kiss. It's a first.

When eventually they pull apart, their arms have somehow gotten wrapped around each other tight.

Dean glances down and whistles. "Whew, Sammy. Uh, sure. Guess I can live with your conditions."

Sam gives Dean his best puppy-eyes, stands up and backs away toward Dean's cabin. Dean watches him disappear inside. After a second, Dean hurries to catch him up.

They have a few hours before they make Eno. May as well make them count.

=O=

Sam is no stranger to Dean's bed. Though Dean has always made like he was some unpleasant chore he would rather not be stuck with, Sam believes it's an attitude Dean deliberately struck. The guy wanted to discourage Sam from thinking there was anything personal between them. But Sam knows Dean is no sex doll. There's a heart in there someplace.

Dean finds him kneeling on the bed barefoot, having already discarded his shoes and knee socks.

"C'mere, Dean. Lemme make you feel good. Know how to make you tingle."

Dean is wearing nondescript military fatigues, the easier to blend in Earthside. Slipping out of them is a matter of unsnapping a few snaps and pulling a long zipper. Sam's outfit is a little more tricky. Campobellan dress uniforms have way too many hooks, loops and buttons. Dean's fingers fumble over them.

"You expected your new bride to find her way through this tangle without breaking a nail?"

"The girl's been waiting to marry me since we were eight. I'd guess she's had plenty time to study the manual."

Sam spares half a second to wonder about Amelia and what will happen to her now she's been left at the altar. He hopes she too will find someone with the power to make all her private fantasies come true.

Dean finally undoes the last fastener of Sam's tunic and pulls it off over his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, then he goes for his waistband. He's taking too long, so Sam tackles him and throws him on the bed laughing, his cute dimples making him look like a big goofy kid.

"Your man-stripping skills need some work, Dean."

"Dude, ask me to unhook a bra one-handed, then yeah."

Kneeling above him, Sam unties the ribbon restraining his long hair and it cascades forward, skimming his broad shoulders. He pulls his undershirt off over his head with a flourish, baring a well-defined chest. Then he proceeds to unbuckle his belt and throw aside his sporran. Unwrapping his snow-white kilt from around his hips, he holds it out to the sides like a pair of swan wings. Dean is shocked to see he's not wearing a thing under his kilt.

"Running late this morning, dude? Forgot your tighty whiteys?"

Sam laughs, wicked and sexy, shaking his hair around him like a stallion's mane.

"It's the traditional Campobellan way. Nothing goes under the kilt but a cheeky grin. Every truehearted Campobellan in the abbey today was going commando."

With that slightly disturbing image in mind, Dean notices that Sam's family jewels seem a good deal bigger than he remembered.

"You been taking penile enlargement pills too, huh? Looks like little Sammy's a real BIG boy now."

As a matter of fact, looking up at it from the mattress, Sam's equipment seems to have achieved unnerving proportions.

"Been doing some weight training. Builds up the muscle. Thought I may as well give Amelia a treat. Something to remember her wedding night for other than the ceremonial bullcrap. YOU lucked out."

Sam discards the kilt someplace on the floor. His huge and stiffly erect member, a good three inches longer and thicker than when Dean last saw it, has been decorated with a jaunty plaid ribbon looped around its base. The ribbon bears a small silver badge with a crest in it. It piques Dean's curiosity.

"What's with the insignia? Win a prize with that monster cucumber?"

Sam looks down at it and smiles proudly.

"War cry of the Campobello clan. Loosely translated, 'Do not be deterred by the size of my manhood. It'll easily fit in you both ways when you become my sex slave.'"

Dean suspects that is a VERY loose translation. "Very tasteful."

Sam wriggles his hips, waving his appendage under Dean's nose invitingly.

"You wanna unwrap me now, lover?"

Dean's hand hesitates over the ribbon for a second. He could untie the bow right away, or... He slides his hand up over Sam's abdomen instead.

"Not yet, Sammy. Let's see how long it'll take before I have you begging me to let you loose."

Sam likes the way Dean is getting into the game. He leans forward and bites his left earlobe, his thick shaft pressing rigid into the curve of Dean's groin. A drop of his passion oozes out to dribble down the pale flesh of Dean's thigh.

"Oh, so that's the way you wanna play it, huh?"

He reaches down between them and gives Dean's manhood a little squeeze in his big fist. Dean's eyes pop slightly and his mouth opens a little. Sam takes the opportunity to lay a kiss on those pink lips, probing with a questing tongue. Dean hums softly and allows him to deepen the kiss, for a full minute.

Dean clears his throat. "I do this all the time. With women," he volunteers.

Sam chuckles. "Way to make a guy feel special, lover."

He starts to carefully place little nips and kisses inward from the ball of Dean's shoulder. It's interfering a lot with Dean's thought processes.

"I mean, uh, I mean... with women, uh, women all the time. Not guys."

Sam stops nibbling Dean's neck and leans back to search Dean's face.

"You need to let go the straight thing, Dean. Can we both agree it's kinda off topic here?"

Dean huffs. "I was gonna say, not guys by choice. But, yeah. I, uh, I'da done pretty much anything for credits one time. So, uh, I do kinda have, uh, skills."

Sam knows Dean got through some rough times, early in his life, and his past is something he's going to want to hear about eventually. For now, the big guy simply maintains sympathetic eye contact with Dean until he starts to grin.

Then Sam asks, mock-innocently, "Were you any good?"

Dean smirks proudly. "Got me my down payment for Baby."

He has already rationalized that part of his past. Sam's not going to rake it up. Actually, he's kind of impressed. He bites his lower lip naughtily and growls.

"OK, teacher. I'm here to learn."

The lesson takes them all night.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Stay tuned for the a little more on this theme, coming up shortly.


	30. Intimate Moments

A/N: For those who appreciate a little rumpy-pumpy, an optional chapter. N.B. I'm not into PWP so don't expect graphic.

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 30: Intimate Moments) by frostygossamer

* * *

Sam stares down at Dean as he lies on the big captain's bed, a little turned on by just looking at the naked awesomeness that is Prince Sam, scion of a warrior race who robbed and plundered, raped and pillaged anyone they could lay their big hairy-knuckled hands on. He steels himself. This is going to be a night to remember.

"Touch me," says Sam. His voice is a growl, husky and mellow. "I need you to show me how you want me."

Dean draws in a tight breath. Can't Sam see how much he wants him? Doesn't it show? How much more aroused could he look?

He tries. "I- I want you so much it hurts, Sammy."

Sam huffs out a chuckle. Dean is trying hard and he DOES appreciate his efforts.

"I meant, do you want me on my back or on my knees, doofus."

Dean sighs and swaps places, pushing Sam back down onto the bed.

"On your back, knees up. I'm gonna show you how I want you in me."

Sam rolls onto his back and raises his knees obediently. He's just a tad nervous in this strange position.

"This the best way? For a first time?"

"We don't know it's your first time. And sure this'll be fine. I got oil here."

Dean reaches over Sam and pulls a small bottle of 'recreational' oil from his night stand drawer.

Sam chuckles. "You got that for me? So sweet."

Dean makes a face. He told himself he was getting supplies but, yes, he got it for Sam, in his head. He forces a pillow under Sam's ass then dribbles a little oil on his fingers.

"First I'm gonna loosen you right up, then I'm gonna go in for the kill. OK with you?"

Sam pouts and sucks his finger like a would-be sex kitten or, considering his size, maybe a sex cat.

"Do your worst, daddy-o."

It's only bravado that's keeping him still. That and the raging boner he has for his snarky love-object. The very idea of being breached, like a virgin bride on her wedding night, makes his knees tremble. Not in a good way. Dean's fingers slide into his body and wriggle around, opening and searching. Not as unpleasant as Sam feared. Actually it's kind of- WOW! Finally they hit the jackpot.

"Whoa!" yelps Sam, and Dean knows he's there.

Withdrawing his hand he anoints his member generously and prepares for combat. But first he bobs forward and kisses Sam on the lips. Sam leans up on one elbow and captures his mouth in a deep, sloppy kiss. Dean comes away chuckling.

"Ready or not, here I come," he announces.

Sam braces himself. The tug of Dean's member entering his hole feels like something he should resist. He concentrates, his fingers twisting in the bed sheets until Dean is right where he ought to be.

Sam gasps. "Jeez! Feels like a ramrod up my ass."

"Why, thank you, honey," Dean snickers and pulls out a little. "Pay attention. I'll be asking questions later."

He rams back in like he's a subway train and Sam is the end of the line.

"Whew!" Sam feels kind of faint. "Can you hold up while I just die."

"Drama queen," Dean retorts and starts to pump him for all he's worth.

All Sam can do is lie there and take it, cussing loudly and trying not to bite off his tongue with pleasure. His mighty claymore is rigid and weeping - and if only he could come - but that damn ribbon is still in place. Its little silver medallion glitters mockingly with every shudder of his body. Why, oh why did he ever think it would be fun?

"Dean. Oof!" he groans. "I got a volcano ready to blow."

Dean tries to laugh but events overtake him and suddenly his green eyes go glassy and he spaces out. Sam soon realizes why as his lover's release fills him. Dean's jerky movements gradually slow as his climax passes. Sam lies there grunting until Dean stops.

"Oh sure," he bitches. "You come, fine. What about me? I'm suffering here."

Dean treats him to a dopey grins and then kisses him again, soft and wet. Sam tries to chase him as he pulls back.

"Don't worry, Sammy. Saving you for later," Dean chuckles wickedly.

He pulls out carefully and shuffles down the bed a little. He strokes Sam's manhood with a finger and clicks his tongue.

"This big guy looks like he's ready to come out and play."

Sam squirms under his touch.

"Stop fooling around, Dean. I'm gonna burst right here and take out that bulkhead. You won't be smiling when you're looking at the ether through a freakin' big-ass hole."

"You wanted me to touch you," Dean reminds him, leaning on Sam's knee nonchalantly. "And talking about a freakin' big asshole."

"Bitch," grouches Sam. "Didn't realize I was getting in bed with a freakin' sadist."

"Aw," Dean responds.

Leaning forward he licks the head of Sam's appendage and slides his mouth down over the rigid column. Sam grinds his teeth and his hips rise involuntarily.

"Yeah," he gasps. "I'm ready, Dean."

Dean's pursed lips glide over the extent of Sam's length two three times like he's sucking a popsicle. He pulls off and smacks his lips. Picking up one end of the tartan dick ribbon, he gives is a playful jerk. Sam's eyebrows knit together.

"Yeah, oh yeah, Dean. Do it, Dean. Lover, pulease."

Dean is tempted to torture his partner a little longer but there's a serious possibility that someone could get really hurt. He doesn't need an emasculated lover or a broken nose. He pulls the ribbon loose and tosses it over his shoulder as he takes him tonsil-deep. Sam can't control what happens next. Dean copes manfully but even he chokes a little as his partner's life essence flows down his throat.

"Oogh!" he gasps.

The panicked look on his face means Sam can't help but laugh, even as he's experiencing the full force of his orgasm. His face turns a shade of cherry red that worries even Dean. So he slaps him on the cheek a couple times.

"Hey, hey! Stop it! Breathe, goddamn ya! Sammy! Don't you crap out on me now."

Sam drags in a noisy lungful of air and his face starts to return to its normal healthy tan. Dean is relieved.

"There, there. Jeez. If I'da known you were gonna freak over a little blowjob. You OK now?"

He brushes the stray strands of hair off of Sam's sweaty brow. Sam turns his face into Dean's hand and presses his lips to Dean's palm.

"You're a jerk. You know that?" he whispers.

Dean smiles softly. "Yeah. I know it."

He rubs a hand up and down Sam's thigh, soothing him. Sam lets his eyes close for a moment, enjoying the gentle touch.

"Now THAT," he says, his eyes still closed. "That was an AWESOME ride."

Dean has to agree. He has ridden a fine selection of fillies before and ridden them hard. But he always goes home feeling... Well, he ALWAYS goes home. This time? This time he IS home.

He bends forward and lays the lightest kiss on the big guy's mouth. Sam hums his pleasure at the soft feel of Dean's lips.

Dean smiles to himself. This is different, he thinks. Generally, he takes what he wants and gives only what it takes to get it. Sex is a transaction, nothing more. Generally. But not this time. This time it was all about Sam. And it feels good.

Sam opens his eyes and looks up at him, noticing the far-away look on his lover's face.

"Hey! You ready for a rematch?"

Dean snaps out of it and grins. "You think you can take me then bring it on."

Sam grabs him by the shoulders and rolls them both over. Surprisingly Dean doesn't struggle. He's over that now.

He's where he wants to be.

TBC

* * *

A/N: That was just an extra for readers who don't like to be left at the bedroom door, so to speak. Next chapter coming soon.


	31. Re-negotiations

A/N: It's the 'morning after'. A bit of Dean's POV. Are they ever going to get out of bed?

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 31: Re-negotiations) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean wakes first. He has a strange half-dreamy feeling that he's spent the night wrestling with a hungry alligator. One with a humongous, intrusive tongue and sharp teeth. His skin tingles with tiny bite marks and his body feels loose and tender, but in a good way. He seems to have enjoyed last night. He muses on what he can remember of it...

He recalls kissing... Hot, hot kissing... Warm, soft lips devouring his mouth... An agile tongue exploring his tonsils like an miniature aquanaut... Great kissing, yeah.

There was sucking too, warm and wet... Sharp teeth grazing his nipple... A mouth sealed over his racing heart... Tracing a line down his belly... And on him, wet and warm... Awesome sucking, yeah.

He knows his feet were up around Sam's neck at one point... And he also knows they tested those bedsprings almost to destruction in pretty much every other position they could think of... And a few they may have invented. Heh heh.

And, between flashes of electricity that made his head spin, he recalls spikes of pure sexual energy running up and down his spine with the shock and sizzle of ice water on a hotplate. Whoa, yeah.

Again cool... but weird. Because he's had plenty of sex, one hell of a lot, and no one has ever gotten inside him that way, deep deep inside. Oh God, yeah.

Then again, he has never had sex with anyone so bat shit crazy in love with him before. Which is, in itself, kind of scary. Uh-huh.

And he was never hot for a guy till he met Sam. Which means the big goober has somehow warped him by being so freakin' irresistible. Damn it, yeah.

That pouty face and those huge hands all over his body? Dean never stood a chance. No sir.

He can still taste Sam on his tongue, gross but interesting. And, right now, there's Sam's arm wrapped around his waist. Sure.

It's heavy and warm and it actually... really doesn't feel that bad.

The chronometer beside his bed, shamelessly wearing Sam's downstairs ribbon, confirms that they've gotten within hailing distance of Eno. Pretty soon Baby will start procedures for landing. Dean should really go talk time and place with Captain Ellen Harvelle.

He moves to carefully lever himself up from the mattress and his hand happens to connect with Sam's hand. Experimentally he threads his fingers between Sam's and squeezes. Does it feel good the way it felt good to hold hands with Miss Lisa Braeden? Uh-huh, pretty good. Sam's huge paw makes even Dean's feel relatively small and childlike. Sam's hand feels the way his dad's hand felt, strong and safe. It's really not a bad feeling.

Sam squeezes back. He's awake. Damn it! Dean's natural reflex is to snatch back his hand, but Sam holds on and Dean leaves it there. He guesses this is the way it's going to be between them from now on so he may as well go with it. If he wriggles out Sam may get the wrong idea, that he isn't 100 percent happy. And he is, for once, 100 percent happy.

Dean snaps himself out of his daze. "Gotta go message Ellen Harvelle."

Sam opens his eyes a slit and grins. "Sure."

Dean makes no attempt to move. Sam rolls over and pulls him back onto the mattress. Dean lets him.

"So?" asks Sam, quietly in his ear. "Why'd you come get me after so long? Kinda figured you were outta my life for good. That was a cold move, by the way."

Dean shrugs. He thought he was doing the right thing. Sometimes the rightness of a thing is subject to drift. Sometimes you need a figurative lens to see it through.

"It was the Pompatus."

Sam is skeptical. "Oh, sure. One look at that little guy and you suddenly gotta go all party-crasher on my ass. Figures."

Dean pokes him in the ribs. "I can always take you back, chucklehead."

Sam kisses his ear and whispers, "Never."

He knows Dean's not going to flip-flop again, not after they have finally sealed the deal with a 'night of passion' that almost swung the damn rocketship off its course.

Dean shoves Sam's head away, fairly playfully. "Hey, bitch, I'm explaining something here."

Sam straightens his face. "Sure. Fire away."

"Well... Believe it or not, I had one of those cuddlebutts, back when I was four. Until some bitch caseworker saw fit to confiscate him, uh, it."

"Harsh."

"Way harsh. Sure missed its fuzzy ass, the dumb hunk of fluff. It was all the family I had left, friend, companion, confidant, bed-buddy."

Sam grins. "Sounds a lot like me."

Dean turns his head and gives him a look. "You get that, huh?"

Sam's eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh, that WAS what you were getting at. Hey, I can read minds. Freaky."

He can picture the scene. A small boy, four-year-old Dean, standing on the steps of a formidable fortress-like orphanage, some gray gabardine-clad matron gripping his tiny hand, the furry paw of his only surviving family member grasped in a little fist. They could have let him keep one soft toy, surely?

Even if none of the other kids were allowed, he had lost his father and almost his life, for heaven's sake. That they took away his only comfort is damn hard to justify. It was the last vestige of a loving family who had once called him their 'little prince'.

But now Sam's confusing this mental image with one from his own past. It's a vivid recollection of the day his grandfather called him into his office from playing ball with the servants' kids. The Grand Duke informed him that his parents, Samuel's daughter the Princess Royal and her husband, had both been lost in an airship disaster.

The stern old man's manner was dry-eyed and pragmatic. He said, "These things happen in time of war". At least Sam got to keep his teddy, and his entire nursery. His whole future didn't come crashing down around him like Dean's did. No wonder Dean is such a damaged bunny.

Dean snorts. "Can you shut your yap for one second?"

Sam looks suitably contrite as Dean finishes his thought.

"OK, I let them bully me into giving up THAT bear. Now I look in the box and there it is, a bear. It all comes flooding back and I'm thinking, 'Crap! I did it again.'"

"Did what?"

"Handed over my freakin' bear, that's what, doofus. Those freakin' mindbenders had me believing I gotta 'walk alone'. Well, self-sufficiency ain't all it's cracked up to be. And I fell for that old crap again. May as well have put you in a freakin' space suit, boxed you up and sent you airmail. Hell, I pretty much DID. So I'm thinking, 'Oh no, not this time, dude!'"

"Crazy!" Sam laughs. "Cue mad dash to the abbey, huh?"

"Bingo!"

Dean is already getting out of bed to go intercommunicate with Ellen. Sam is suddenly touched by Dean's analogy. Typical of the guy, he's never going to say it out loud but someplace hidden in there was a pretty sweet sentiment.

"So, uh, you're saying I'm YOUR Pompatus?"

Dean pauses, hand on doorknob.

It has taken him a lightning bolt of self-realization, and confirmation from Sam, but he does finally believe he can say what the heck a Pompatus is all about. If he chooses, HIS Pompatus could be the big naked guy lying there in his bed. And, yeah, he does choose.

"Yep. I guess." He disappears out the door, walking very gingerly.

Sam rolls over on his back and chuckles, patting his big rod. "Good boy, Goliath!"

Then he sits up, already missing his captain, and shouts through the open door.

"And you come right on back here. OK? I'm still kinda shaky on those last six positions."

Dean snickers to himself as he hails Eno Convoy Control. He may have to punish Sam for being such a bad student.

TBC

* * *

A/N: I promise next chapter will contain some plot. The adventure is not over yet. More soon.


	32. Appointment with Death

A/N: OK, back to the plot. They've got the Pompatus. Is that the end of the adventure? Not exactly...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 32: Appointment with Death) by frostygossamer

* * *

The Enoan eatery where they meet up with Captain Harvelle and a discreetly disguised Mr. Death is what they would call a greasy spoon. Death, wearing a long, black overcoat with a distractingly cheerful red and white spotted napkin tucked in his collar, has already ordered and is diving into an evidently delicious plate of spicy fried dekaducken mega-wings. Ellen sits beside him toying with a cup of coffee and frequently checking her watch.

Sam and Dean sly in through the back entrance, skirting the noisy, steamy kitchen, and drop into the empty seats across from Ellen and Death. Ellen's relieved sigh deflates her to half-size.

"You've got it?"

She still sounds anxious. Dean and Sam nod simultaneously.

"It's in here."

Dean pats the backpack Sam has over one shoulder.

Death puts his dekaducken bone back on his plate and carefully wipes his hands on a large silk handkerchief with the monogram 'D' embroidered in the corner.

"Gentlemen, I was beginning to think I would never see this again. Or rather, see this GENUINE article for the first time."

He reaches out a slim hand and Sam passes him his pack. Death glances into it quickly before stowing the whole thing in his own portmanteau.

"Thank you. I can't say how glad I am to finally have that vexatious item in my possession. I'm sure you'll be glad to know that Miss Meg Masters was arrested yesterday at her Lunar business address, for her part in the conspiracy."

Dean's delight is evident. One down but what about the one to go?

"Evil bitch. What about fearsome pirate Cap'n Benny? The long arm of the law tap him on the shoulder yet?"

Death can only sigh. He's clearly not happy about something. Ellen takes over.

"By the time what passes for Emoan Civil Security got around to raiding the Selenitist secret base, Lafitte had already made his escape. They think he's holed up someplace on the Lunar darkside. But that's as much as they can say. The few guys they managed to pick up were too damn scared to snitch on him."

"Awesome," grunts Dean. "Did I mention how much I hate Emo?"

Sam doesn't like the way this sounds. Surely they can't have let the schizoid monster slip through their fingers?

"So he's still in the wind? They still on his tail? Can't let the guy get away with this. He's freakin' dangerous."

Death agrees. "Indeed. Captain Benny Lafitte must NOT remain at large. A man like he is will stir up trouble as long as he draws breath."

He turns and addresses Dean. "Captain Dean, my government would be, let us say, grateful if this man is never heard from again... quietly and permanently. The last thing we need is a martyr or a rallying point for disgruntled Selenitist sympathizers. There are LEGAL avenues for Lunans to pursue their cause."

Dean's eyes grow large. He really can't believe they expect him to clean up after some Emoan screw up.

"You want me to go mop up the crap? Again? You got no one else's name on your Rolodex?"

Death gives him a genteel smile. He is a diplomat after all.

"We who work behind the scenes rely on people like you, Captain, to help us protect the peace of the entire system. Without the services of neutral unbiased agents, those with an axe to grind, a cause to promote or a religion to spread will bring inevitable chaos. Innocents will suffer. Lives will be lost. We need you. Mankind needs you."

Dean dismisses this manipulative pile of poop. He doesn't need the guilt trip. Death changes his approach.

"Captain, we believe you're the best man for this job. And we would rather not involve anyone new at such a late juncture. You can rest assured you will be VERY generously rewarded for your help."

Dean opens his mouth to say "Hell no!", but Sam butts in ahead of him. He stares Death square in the eye as he answers for his partner.

"We'll do it. IF we can name our price."

Death meets his gaze for a long moment before nodding sagely.

"Very well. I believe I know your price, Your Highness."

Dean is speechless. He doesn't know whether he should chew Sam out for accepting the dangerous commission without consulting him, or demand to know what the hell is this price he is talking about. Although Sam is a little fazed by Death claiming to be already clued-up on his intended terms, he shakes the gent's hand and, grinning happily, rises to take his leave. Dean tugs on his sleeve, insistent he sits back down, but Sam ignores him, quietly shaking off his grasp.

"Next time you hear from us, Captain Benny will have been... redacted."

Sam turns and walks out of the diner leaving Dean sitting awkwardly on his own. He gets up, trying not to seem rattled, bobs his head to Ellen, and barely to Death, before following Sam out of the diner's front door.

He doesn't slam it but it does shudder a little in its frame.

Ellen and Death exchange a look.

=O=

It's a windy day on Eno. The turbines are working hard mixing fresh oxygen into the atmosphere. Eno doesn't spin so she has no natural wind. She also has no forests. Her air is manufactured in a series of massive gasworks on the equatorial line. Today being Monday, new air is being circulated to pump up the workforce for their week of toil. On Mondays women stick more hat-pins in their hats and men use extra-hold hair gel.

Back out on the street, Dean has to hold on to the lapels of his leather jacket to prevent it flapping open. Sam is striding ahead, his lustrous locks blowing out behind him like a comet's tail.

Dean grumbles as he hurries after Sam and his long legs. They have finally handed the Pompatus Box back to the Diplomatic Courier Mr. Death and now, because of Sam, they have yet another job to do. He is far from pleased. Sam does NOT get to pull that kind of crap on him. He's still the boss. OK?!

Several yards down the street, Dean catches up with Sam. Grabbing his arm, he forces the big guy to a halt.

"Dude, what the Sam Hill was all that about? You really WANT to go get us killed scouring the ass-end of Luna for some crapshack flying a skull and crossbones? That it?"

"Thought it was 'what you do', Dean."

"I choose how I risk my OWN life, partner," Dean shoots back. "No one else."

Sam refuses to get into it in the street. He takes a second before he replies.

"You WOULD have agreed eventually, Dean. I know you."

"Not the damn point, Sam."

Dean stomps off grumbling in the direction of the lot where they parked Baby.

As Sam hurries to catch up, he fails to notice a sheet of old newsprint as it flaps along the gutter. The front page of the Eno Gazette carries a headline that would have interested him:

* * *

**CAMPOBELLAN WEDDING OF THE CENTURY**

**Grand Duke Samuel remarries in last minute switch.**

* * *

The article under that header recounts how Sam's grandfather, the Grand Duke, gallantly saved Amelia's wrecked wedding day from total disaster by stepping up and marrying the lady himself. The distinguished and vigorous sexagenarian already had the nuptial kilt and the sexy calves and, coincidentally, his name was on the marriage licence.

Amelia was flattered to accept the aristocrat's offer and, after a lavish celeb-style honeymoon, she's already the proud mother-to-be of a future heir to Campobello, always her own personal fantasy.

It seems Sam isn't the only one who got what he wanted.

TBC

* * *

A/N: I'm guessing Amelia would be happy enough as an old man's darling. I wouldn't kick a super-rich Mitch Pileggi out of bed if I was her. ;) More shortly.


	33. Return to the Dark Side

A/N: The boys have journeyed to the Moon to search for dastardly Pirate Benny and 'erase' him before he puts another evil plan together. Their first 'team' effort...

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 33: Return to the Dark Side) by frostygossamer

* * *

Dean steps down onto the surface of dark Luna with his game-face on. Both he and Sam are armed and pumped for any manner of combat action they may encounter.

*flashback*

On the flight over from Eno to Luna, Dean hardly speaks a word to Sam. He's still mad with him for taking the lead and accepting this assignment without his say-so. When he agreed to try out this new teamwork thing with the guy, he envisaged Sam taking a back seat on the decision making and generally acting like a faithful follower. He's not so sure he likes his new number two being all masterful like this.

As he sets up the parameters for a stealth approach to Luna's day-night terminator he mutters grumpily to himself.

"You're MY rocketship, huh Baby? His freakin' Highness and his 'Sure, we'll do it. Sir, yes sir! Jackass."

Sam is busy browsing through Dean's arsenal of weapons, hefting various knives and handguns. Dean has started to regret having Baby grant him access. He watches Dean and can see by his body language he's still sore. So he attempts to convince him it's no big deal.

"Dean, this is gonna be a sweet gig. In and out in a few hours. All we gotta do is locate Benny and... gurg!"

He does the throat-cutting gesture with his hand and makes a strangled noise. Dean grumbles.

"If we can find him anyplace on maybe half the surface of the freakin' moon."

Sam grins. "Nuh-uh. Dude, you already KNOW where he is."

"Oh sure I do. And that's where exactly?"

Sam congratulates himself that he has remembered something the battered Dean rambled about after he rescued him from Benny's monkey track. It appears to have totally slipped Dean's mind. The pounding he took must have messed with his memory.

"Dude, how quickly you forget. Benny told you who his lieutenant was, remember?"

Dean stares at him dubiously for a few seconds before light dawns.

"Boris! Yeah, Benny DID say that. You think it's the same guy?"

Sam shrugs off-handedly. "Your guy Ash said he's a big enchilada on the darkside, right? You'd know more about that than me."

Dean notes the guy seems to have blanked on Boris and his Merry Men. He guesses Sam's memory also has its white-outs.

"You think Benny's holed up in Boristown?"

"Man, I would NOT be surprised."

Dean has to admit that does sound like a very plausible idea.

He nods. "Good place to start the search, I guess.

*end of flashback*

So here they are, a half-hour's march from Boristown. And Dean is thinking this is where it all started.

=O=

They lie on their bellies in the moondust watching the movement of guards around Boris's compound through four-gear quadrinoculars.

"Up-tick in patrol manpower since I was last here." Dean remarks.

"Looking good for Benny being in residence, huh?"

Dean isn't so sure. "Don't see his black pirate flag anyplace."

"Guess he's keeping it on the down-low."

They screw silencers onto their hand weapons, get up and approach the compound.

"Shoulda brought my rocket jet pack," Dean comments dryly.

Sam's eyes widen. "You have a rocket jet pack?"

Dean gives him a sharp glare of disbelief. No one has built a rocket jet pack since the inventor burned off his own butt.

They engage two guys on guard duty at the front gate like they belong there. Dean assumes an affable manner so as not to raise their suspicions. They aren't exactly on the ball.

"Hi there, guys. We're here with Benny. You wanna let us through?"

Both guards eye them warily before, well, letting them pass. Sam has to chuckle as they stroll toward the patched up cantina.

"Guess you took out the brainiacs last time, huh?"

Dean wonders if Sam is maybe a little TOO cool about returning to Boristown.

"You sure you still don't remember this place?"

Sam airily shakes his head. "Nuh-uh."

=O=

The crude cantina shack is a lot emptier than it was when Dean visited last. Looks like everyone, excepting this handful of mooks, is currently on alert outside.

Dean walks up to the bar where mop-headed Boris himself is polishing a chipped glass with a dingy dishrag.

Boss man Boris eyeballs Dean guardedly, wondering where he has seen him before. His memory of the events of Dean's last visit is still blurry from the blow on the braincase he gave him. Sam comes up behind Dean and the sleazy barkeep's leathery face crinkles into a grin of immediate recognition.

"Hiya, pussyboy. You come back here to give us another booty show? We been missing ya, honeybutt."

Sam pulls out his revolver and pops Boris right between the eyes - Fumpf! - The guy drops like a gunnysack of crap. Dean lifts one eyebrow in question.

"NOW I remember," Sam snarls.

Dean grunts irritably. "Awesome. That butthole was Boris, you jerk. Now we got one less douchebag to interrogate."

Sam shrugs. "Trust me. The slimeball had it coming."

There's a noise of chair legs grating on the floor behind them. The barful of thugs are crowding in on them, evidently unhappy at the loss of service.

Dean and Sam turn back to back. Dean has a pepperbox pistol in each hand, Sam a revolver in his left and a Bowie in his right. The customers look ugly but they aren't Boris's finest. Dean addresses the crowd.

"Anyone here wanna tell us where we can find the fugitive Captain Benny, King of the freakin' Selenitists? Or are we gonna hafta take our information outta your hides?"

Sam's pistol stops the first guy that tries a lunge on his partner. Dean rolls out of the path of the falling body and caps a second one from floor level. Two more pug-uglies advance together. Sam grabs the nearest and runs his razor-sharp blade across his throat. He uses his body as a shield while Dean takes out the other with a well-aimed slug. After they bag a few more, Sam finishes the final monster of a guy when he has Dean lifted high over his head. Dean lands awkwardly on top of the pile of stiffs.

He gets to his feet, dusting himself down.

"Dude, you ganked the last bad guy. Now where we gonna get the skinny on Benny?"

Sam grins. "Whoops. Sorry. I'm kinda new to this."

=O=

They lean on the bar for a moment and help themselves to a shot of rotgut. One of Dean's pepperboxes has jammed, so he replaces it in its holster and reloads the other one. While Sam is checking his revolver, a door opens at the end of the bar and an elderly guy totters in carrying a plate of steaming hotdogs. Sam and Dean watch him walk over to a nearby table and set them down before he glances around the room. He belatedly recoils when he sees all the bodies heaped on the dirt floor.

He clutches at his old heart. "Oh-my-God! What in the name of all that's holy happened here?"

Turning, he spots Sam and Dean covered in splatters of blood and starts to plead with them, hands raised.

"Please, p-please don't shoot. I- I'm only the, uh, the c-cook here."

Dean isn't in the habit of shooting unarmed ancillary staff. Walking over, he helps himself to a hotdog. Not bad. He speaks to the old guy with his mouth still full of dog.

"OK, Cookie, you tell us where you been taking the food for Benny, and maybe we'll let you go."

The old guy's knees are knocking. Sam tries a smile on him that's meant to be reassuring but, in this situation, it comes over a little sinister. The cook decides it's best to cooperate. He begins shakily.

"Dunno about any, uh... Benny was it?"

Sam doesn't look like he's buying this and Dean's hand goes to his pistol.

"B-but there's some guy living down in the tunnels. I leave food there for him."

"Tunnels?" asks Sam. "So where are these tunnels?"

"Boris stores his ammo down there. They run under the whole darn site. Entrance is behind Boris's office, out back."

Dean is storming into Boris's office before Sam even tells the old guy that he should scat. When Sam gets to Boris's door, the office is empty. Dean is already out back looking for the tunnel entrance. Twenty yards behind the lean-to office annexe the silhouette of a stormcellar-type doorway is visible against the earthglow.

Dean shoots off the lock - Fumpf! - and lifts the door. They peer inside. Sam has a suggestion.

"If it's an ammo store maybe we should toss in a match and stand well back?"

Dean scoffs. "We do that we're never gonna know if Benny is even in there."

Sam has to agree, but Dean continues to hesitate for a second before entering.

"So, if Benny IS in there is he gonna be alone?"

"Didn't Cookie say he leaves food for 'him'? That's one guy."

Dean has to admit Sam's reasoning seems logical. He steps forward.

"Let's hope there's no one down here on the Air Diet."

TBC

* * *

A/N: What are they going to find in the tunnels? More coming soon.


	34. Down the Rabbit Hole

A/N: FYI This story has 35 chapters and this is the 34th. Sam and Dean are about to enter the secret tunnel complex under Boristown. What will they find there?

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 34: Down the Rabbit Hole) by frostygossamer

* * *

They enter the tunnel mouth one by one, Dean going first and Sam watching their rear. It's dark down there so they get out their flashlights. After they walk a hundred yards or so, Dean looks over his shoulder to find Sam examining the walls of the tunnel with his light.

"Dude?!" he hisses.

"Dean, these tunnels are OLD," whispers Sam. "No way Boris and his guys dug 'em. See here? These are some kinda glyphs or runes or whatever."

Dean doesn't have time for this right now.

"Shut up. Unless you find a glyph of a chunky guy with a beard, and an arrow saying 'This Way'."

After a couple minutes walking, the tunnel splits in three ways. Dean shines his flashlight to the left. Nothing special there.

"Keep going forward?"

It's a suggestion, but it sounds more like an order. Sam follows dutifully. He shines his light up the right-hand turn and- What was that? He imagines he glimpsed a tiny figure disappearing into the darkness. It looked a little like some kind of an albino monkey.

"Jeez, wha- what the hell was that?"

"What?!" snaps Dean.

"Something. An animal? I dunno. Something on two legs. It was maybe a couple feet tall and kinda, uh, gray or maybe silver-coloured."

Dean grumbles under his breath.

"Then it's not Benny. Ignore it. It's a gopher or some crap."

"Dude, a gopher? On the freakin' MOON?"

Dean isn't buying it, so they move on forward, following the direct tunnel. A couple steps later Sam has an idea.

"Hey, maybe it was a Selenite. I mean a REAL honest-to-God Selenite."

Dean doesn't even turn around.

"Yeah sure, or maybe it was the freakin' ass fairy."

They walk on a little farther until they spot a faint light ahead. Creeping up to the next corner, they both peek around and see Pirate Benny sitting on an ammunition crate with his back to them. He's hunched over what looks like some sort of a campaign map spread out on the top of a larger crate.

He hasn't noticed them yet.

=O=

Dean emerges into the oil-lamp lit space, pistol drawn, and addresses the pirate with humour in his voice, sounding out his adversary's name like it's a funny joke.

"Captain. Benny. Lafitte."

Benny looks up from perusing his chart with a toothy grin on his face.

"So it's you they sent, Captain Dean. You're gonna be my nemesis, huh?"

Dean shrugs. "You shoulda killed me when you had the chance. Now I got the ball."

Benny exhales sadly and sits up straighter, with his hands on his thighs.

"Guess you win, friend. Tomorrow's headlines can shout about yet another so-called terrorist leader taken down by a photogenic hero."

"There's nothing so-called about you, Benny. You're the real deal crazy-guy-in-a-bunker."

Benny smirks. "You ever think how HISTORY is gonna look at this? There's a fine line between what you'd call a terrorist and what we'd call a freedom-fighter. It depends entirely on who's writing the history books."

Dean growls back. "Dude, you're not worth a footnote in the history books. You're just another delusional nutjob."

He gestures with his pistol. Benny puts his hands behind his head in an attitude of surrender.

"So what now? You gonna make me walk the proverbial plank? Do you actually care if what you're doing is stamping out a freak radical cell or stifling a righteous movement for progress? Ten years on, are you still gonna look like the good guy?"

Dean scoffs. "This is never gonna make the headlines either way."

Benny grins grimly. "Ever wonder why YOU wound up being the guy to take me out? Deniability. You're a non-person, Dean. You let them make a pawn outta you."

"I'm no pawn," snaps Dean. "I make my own destiny."

But Benny has cast a shadow of doubt over Dean's determination. Maybe he SHOULD be taking this douchebag into custody and turning him over to the proper authorities for public trial. Then again, does a scumbag like him deserve the chance to spout his monstrous hawkish rant for the courtroom press?

Dean doesn't notice Benny lower one hand and slide it under the map, pulling out an automatic machine pistol, until a bullet dings off of the wall behind his shoulder. He ducks behind a crate and they exchange shot after shot that echoes around the enclosed space, and comes perilously close to hitting something explosive.

Ouch! Benny gets in a flukey hit. Dean winds up on his back clutching his side, blood flowing from a gaping hole in his flesh. His weapon has slipped from his hand, out of reach. Benny advances on him chortling wickedly, his automatic pistol trained on his prostrate victim.

"Seems I got Lady Luck on my side."

Swapping his automatic to his other hand, he helps himself to a handy hatchet. Someone has been using it to open one of the crates and left it embedded in the wood. Dean eyes the sharp blade and butt-shuffles backward toward the tunnel wall, struggling to get to his feet. He glances over his shoulder at the way he came in. With Sam.

Benny misunderstands his side-glance. "Oh no, Captain Dean, I don't think you'll be going anyplace."

But where is Sam? Oh, Jeez, don't say the dumb guy took a bullet? Sam! Sam, no!

"SAM!"

Benny raises his axe ready to bring it down on Dean's leg. Dean is so goddamn mad he probably wouldn't even feel it. He got Sam back just for this madman to waste him? HELL NO! Dean steadies himself against the wall and steels himself for the hatchet blow.

The sick bastard won't be wearing that arm much longer.

"It's a real shame," cackles Benny. "Another time, I reckon we coulda been big buddies, me and you."

Dean only growls in response.

Then suddenly there's a noise behind Benny and he wheels around in surprise. He assumed Dean came after him on his own, like last time. He wasn't around when Tornado Sam showed up. But now...

"Hey, Benny," yells Sam. "You wanna be buddies with ME, huh?"

Benny takes a wild dive at Sam, who grabs both the guy's hands by the wrist, and they wrestle back and forth across the small space. But Sam is bigger and younger then the pirate captain and he forces him to drop first the pistol then the hatchet. It tumbles to the tunnel floor and Dean scrabbles forward to grab it. Staggering to his feet braced against the tunnel wall, he holds the axe tight in both hands and swings wide.

WHACK! Benny's head bounces onto the dirt and dust of the floor, splashing Dean with a fresh spurt of hot blood.

The boys stand there panting for a few seconds until they get their breaths back.

"Yahtzee!" gasps Dean, and Sam manages a laugh.

=O=

They walk back up through the tunnels to the Lunar surface. Dean is leaning slightly on Sam for support, wincing with each step and clutching the wound in his side.

"Totally saved your ass," claims Sam, gleefully.

Dean objects. "Did not. Totally had it covered."

Sam snorts derisively. "Oh sure. You were disarmed. What were you gonna do? Talk him to death?"

Dean pulls open his shirt and Sam's eyebrows shoot up in admiration. Taped to Dean's defined chest is Meg's paper-thin Colt.

"Insurance. And, by the way, where the hell were you? Fall down a rabbit hole?"

"Actually, it's a funny story."

*flashback*

Back when they both spot Benny in his hideaway, Sam notices another entrance via a tunnel entering the space from the left. He figures he can double back quickly to where the tunnel splits and cut off Benny's retreat. He takes the left-hand tunnel but the damn thing splits again a few yards farther on.

Right about then Sam trips over his own feet and drops his flashlight, which promptly goes out leaving him in the pitch dark. After a couple seconds fumbling around on the ground, Sam is completely turned around. Sitting on his butt defeated, he gives the flashlight a good shake. It flickers and comes back on, revealing the owlish features of a short, silvery-haired being staring straight at him. Sam jumps to his feet.

"What the...?"

Either that is a Selenite or he's starting to hallucinate about damn teddy bears. The small being scuttles away along the tunnels and seems to pause for a second, like he wants Sam to follow, before disappearing. Sam stumbles after him and winds up exactly where he meant to be, right behind Benny as he makes to attack Dean.

*end of flashback*

They have now gotten to the storm-door and Sam helps Dean slip out onto the surface. Dean looks back into the tunnel.

"Guess we could still blow the whole crap-pile? Do that cool thing where we casually walk away, silhouetted by the fireball exploding behind us?"

He has a flair for the melodramatic. Sam doesn't agree.

"What and wipe out the first actual evidence of real Selenites? Dude, that little moon-guy helped us."

Dean gives him a narrow disbelieving look. "Dude, you hit your head in the dark?"

They leave the tunnels behind and, between unsuspecting guard patrols, slip out of the compound through a hole in the fence.

TBC

* * *

A/N: All that's left now is an epilogue. Coming soon.


	35. Epilogue

A/N: Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed to the end. I hope you've enjoyed this story. Finally, the last chapter. Inspired by the final scene of 'The Spy Who Loved Me'.

* * *

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 35: Epilogue) by frostygossamer

* * *

Aboard Baby, a small red light winks on and a floating hologram of Jo Harvelle's face appears. There's a flash and a blink as she switches her projector control lever to search mode. One holo-projector after another flickers into life through the ship, as the algorithm seeks out a recipient for her transmission from Convoy Control. It finally settles on the occupied Auto-Decontaminator sauna.

Inside the steam room two people are enjoying a very private moment of togetherness. Dean's encounter with tantric yoga instructress Miss Braeden has turned out to be particularly useful, as he and his new partner wind down with a little erotic manipulation.

Sam sits on the sauna bench, bathed in an oily sheen of sweat, head thrown back against the wall, legs spread wide. Dean lies between his long legs, head pillowed on Sam's chest, back comfortable on the big guy's belly, freckled skin glistening, while Sam reaches between his inner thighs and rhythmically massages an intimate area that... Hmm...

There's a little too much male flesh of an private nature on display to a suddenly overheated Jo, who quickly switches off her input visuals. Not that she doesn't appreciate the opportunity to study the anatomy of two extremely fit young men, but she's not the only one on duty in the Control office and what she glimpsed was definitely not worksafe.

She clears her throat to get their attention. They stop what they are doing immediately.

"Sorry to interrupt, boys. but I've got a MAJORLY important caller on the line for you. The President of Terra wants to thank you for your work retrieving that vital, uh, Pompatus MacGuffin doohickey and preventing, basically, well, chaos."

Dean and Sam disentangle themselves from one another. There's a moment's delay while they scrabble into an upright position. Dean's aura had just been getting into a good place and he deeply resents the untimely interruption. And he's a little discomfited to have been caught in the act, so to speak, by a girl who is pretty much his little sister figure. He covers his confusion with a gruff manner.

"That right, huh? And the 'Do Not Disturb' status on our intercommunicator? Guess you simply 'overlooked' that?"

"Countermanded," corrects Jo. "This is a VERY high priority call, Dean. You're gonna wanna hear this."

Sam eases his butt up from the bench and makes like he's trying to slip silently away, leaving Dean to it, but Dean grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.

"Hey, hey! Where d'you think you're sneaking off to?"

"You're the captain, Dean. I kinda thought you'd wanna take this call alone."

"Dude, YOU wanted to be my crew. You're on my team, you do your bit. OK?"

Sam sits back down, reaches for a stack of clean towels and starts to wipe Dean down, paying careful attention to his flushed, sweaty face and dewy pecs before moving lower.

"Aye aye, Cap'n. But lemme grab us a couple robes. Don't wanna give the guy a free eyeful."

Decency aside, Sam's damn sure he's not going to let some septuagenarian ogle HIS partner's naked flesh. He feels he has earned the right to be a little possessive. Right now he's feeling particularly possessive about certain personal parts of Dean which he is gently patting dry.

Ever uncooperative, Dean grabs his towel and growls, "I can do that myself!"

Moments later, they are perched side by side, respectably covered in capacious terrycloth, when the hologram flickers again and John Q. Publik's familiar visage appears before them. The white-haired old man smiles benignly.

"Captain Dean, I would like to take this opportunity to convey to you the heartfelt gratitude of the Governments of Terra, Luna, Eno and Emo for your exceptional service to the people of all four worlds. Although our citizens will never know exactly how much they owe to you their continued freedom and happiness, we congratulate and salute you and your, um, crew."

He finishes and initiates a round of applause from an unseen audience.

Dean glances at Sam. Sam, being used to this sort of thing after many years of dozing through boring speeches in the Campobello parliament, has zoned out. He's simply sitting there wearing a neutral, if polite, facial expression. Dean elbows him in the side, hard.

"Wha-? Oh yeah."

Sam begins to applaud too. Dean gives a heartfelt sigh.

"Uh, thank you, President. We, uh, value your appreciation."

Actually Dean couldn't give a gnat's ass about Publik's thanks. All that really matters to him is his bank account's new healthy balance. Oh, and Sam. Thank-yous won't buy YED or fuel for Baby, or pay for Sam's keep. And Sam has a big mouth to feed, even if he does eat like a rabbit.

Publik smiles beatifically. "And, as a token of Terra's gratitude, we have agreed to your wishes as stated in THIS document."

He picks up a legal-looking scroll from off-camera and waves it at his apparatus.

"Your records will be amended immediately to reflect your new status and privilege."

Dean looks a little puzzled. "Privilege?"

Publik nods. "Your associate, Prince Samuel of Campobello-"

"MISTER Sam Campbell," interrupts Sam.

Publik nods again. "Mr. Sam Campbell made some formal inquiries while he was Earthside recently. He submitted an official request via his grandfather, Grand Duke Samuel, to have your status regularized and legitimated, and to have your legal records expunged. In other words, effectively to remove your birth name from our 'Most Wanted' files."

"That was very sweet of him," mutters Dean, sarcastically.

"He also inquired about the possibility of you being granted a special licence to legally purchase and possess the banned substance, um, xanthophthalmodaimonide for your personal medical use. In the light of the recent valuable service you have provided to the Government of Terra, and indeed the whole system, we have agreed BOTH requests."

Sam has a Cheshire cat grin on his face. He leans in to Dean's ear and whispers, "I did that."

Dean is almost speechless. "I, uh,..."

He can't help a niggling resentment that Sam would use his influence as a prince this way and interfere with HIS personal status behind his back. But, Jeez. If he had known all he needed to do to get his ass out from under the crap-pile he was struggling to manage was to go down on some random royal...

"We thank you," finishes Sam.

His etiquette training is showing a little.

"Yeah," murmurs Dean, feeling a little dazed.

With a slight bob of the head, Publik disappears from before their eyes and Jo's face pops into view again.

"So I guess you boys'll be ready for a new assignment, huh Dean, Sam?"

Dean's mind is still taking in the recent changes.

"Uh, no, Jo. Think we may be taking a couple weeks out. We could use a vacation in Serenity Spa."

"Yeah, dude," Sam eagerly agrees. "You kinda owe me a honeymoon."

Jo snickers. "OK then. I guess I'll call again later. Have fun. Over."

The hologram disappears as Sam begins peeling the fluffy robe off of his lover. Dean is a little grouchy, not sure how to take Sam's meddling in his affairs.

"I guess you think this means I'm gonna live like a regular stiff from now on?"

Sam isn't dumb enough to believe that.

"Hell no, Dean, I know this is 'what you do', and I'm more than ready to keep on doing it with you. I'm along for the whole wild ride."

"Speaking of ride..."

Dean wriggles his eyebrows suggestively and pulls Sam down into a clinch, his fingers tracing the smooth round of Sam's ass-cheek. Sam goes with it, kissing him deep and long, enjoying the bite of Dean's fingernails into his firm butt. Finally they separate enough for Sam to speak.

"You realize this means you can use your real name again? Your dad's name. No more Captain Mononym."

Dean likes the sound of that. His surname and what it stands for means a lot. He brushes a hand through Sam's long, silky hair. Sam leans into it, humming happily.

"You know what, Sammy? You may look like a hairbrain but, every once in a while, you come up with something pretty damn smart."

"Like to think I got smart genes. The Campobellans are a proud people."

Dean isn't the only one proud of his ancestry. He slaps Sam on the butt.

"Dunno about jeans but your ass sure looked smokin' hot in that kilt."

Sam almost responds with, "We get hitched, I'll wear one for you," but he swallows his words. He's gotten Dean this far into relationship territory, and he doesn't want to spook him. Maybe he should start with mutually beneficial insurance and go from there.

Sam's grandfather taught him how to use procrastination to his political advantage. He can wait. He'll wear Dean down slowly with his masculine charms and the very impressive endowment between his legs. And maybe, someday, he'll let Sam make him HIS prince... charming, consort, whatever.

"You do know now that it's not a fairytale, right?" Sam asks.

Dean looks baffled. "What? Selenite civilization? Dude, I'd figure the jury's still out on that one."

Sam flicks Dean's nipple mischievously. "I mean LOVE, you muttonhead."

"Oof!" Dean's brow creases into a small frown.

It's a hard one to answer, and the slow movement of Sam's fingers over his body aren't helping him to focus. Dean hates to admit he's wrong, but this thing he has with Sam seems to have turned out real after all. No drugged-out fantasy or chick-flick make-believe could feel so good or so satisfying on a ridiculous number of levels.

He groans. "Oogh... Ask me again, Sammy, when we've gotten closer to Serenity."

Sam snickers wickedly. Dean's sex-husky voice makes that sound kind of naughty.

"You better brace yourself, lover, I'm gonna get us there. And fast."

The End

* * *

A/N: The idea for this story, without the naughty bits, has been knocking around in my head so long it originally 'starred' Michael Praed as the 'Sam' character. I hope it entertained you now I've finally got it written down. Nice reviews always appreciated. :)


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